LJRRARY OF CONGRESS. 

UNITED STATES OF AJIERir.l. 



POEMS, 




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1ELI0TYPE PRINTING CO. BOSTON 



A VOLUME OF POEMS 



y 

MRS. M. A. B. KELLY 

State Normal College, Albany. N. Y. 



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2B>o^ton 

JOSEPH GEORGE CUPPLES 
250 BoYLSTON Street 



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Copyright, 1892, 
By J. G. CUPPLES. 



A U rights reserved^ 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Preface xl 

WAR WAIFS. 

Introduction 

Memories of the Siege of Suffolk. . . . i, 

Around the C amp-Fire g 

The Hero of Fort Seward 7 

A Soldier's History 9 

Midnight Musings 17 

We Two 18 

Old Aunt Milly 19 

"Dan" 21 

The Siege Raised 22 

Battle of Deserted House 24 

Two Years Ago 28 

The Last Tattoo 29 

A Rebel Souvenir 30 

The Nameless Heroine 32 

The Young Soldier 34 

The Blue and the Gray 36 

The Lost Cause 38 

Laurel-Crowned 4° 

A Christmas Eve in Camp 41 



\'i CONTENTS. 

IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

PAGE 

The Mystery of Spanish Rock 45 

At the Grave of Albrecht Durer .... 56 

In the Binnenhof 57 

Impromptu 59 

Between the Lakes 60 

NuLLi Secundus 61 

A Myth of the R.hine 62 

Munich 63 

The Arminian Chest . . . . . . -65 

The Judknstrasse 67 

The Greatest Tragedy 68 

POEMS WRITTEN FOR OCCASIONS. 

The Years 83 

To Mrs. W. on Her Wedding-Day .... 94 

Lines Written for a Wedding Anniversary . 94 

Figure-Heads 96 

QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 

A Silicate 117 

To Plagiarism 117 

Query 118 

Why Not .? iiS 

Your Choice . iiS 

O Don't You Remember .' . . . . . .119 

The Self-Made Man 121 

Is IT A Failure ? .121 

Resume 122 

The Puzzled Entomologist 123 

Myths i-:4 



CONTENTS. vii 

CYPRESS SPRAYS. 

PAGE 

In Memoki \m i-9 

The Early Dead 130 

Gone 131 

Beyond 131 

Threc Years Ago 13- 

Saved 133 

Seven Years Ago i34 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My Lady Dedlock 139 

Experience 140 

Autumn Leaves ........ 141 

The First Snow 14- 

The True Queen i43 

Going Down to the Grave . . » . -14 + 

Runaway Jim HS 

Kind Words Only 151 

Grave of Leather Stocking 151 

" His Own Accuser" i54 

My' Little Qtierist 15^ 

The Water Tiger 156 

Submission i57 

Spring Harbingers 158 

Without and Within 160 

No One to Carry the Keys 161 

October 162 

The Last Reveille 163 

'• Still She Keeps Rocking Him" .... 165 

Why Does She Weep for Him .?.... 166 

The Thunder Bolt ....... 167 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



An Autumn Idyl i68 

Longings 171 

Life's Largess 171 



I Wish 



171 



The Flower-Girl of the Tuilleries . . .173 

The Beautiful Home 175 

Ode to Burns 175 

Two Letters 180 

Dead Man's Island 181 

The Down Grade . . . . . . . . 1S4 

A Contrast 185 

In Palmer's Studio 187 

To a Northern Robin 189 

Homeless 191 

A Lesson . . . . • . • • • • 192 

My Real Estate 193 

Twilight in Washington Park 195 

Every Day 196 

Lines for an Album 197 

Cryptogamla. 198 

A Carol . 200 

An Incident 202 

Retrospective 203 

The Hen with One Chick 203 

A Fragment 206 

Death of Tasso 207 

Friendship — What Is It ? 209 

Down by the Sea ... . . 210 

The Old Bell . . .... 212 

The Last Supper of the Girondists . . .214 

Missions 217 

In Conclusion 218 



CONTENTS. i.v 

LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. 

PAGE 

Happiness 



223 
224 



225 



Contentment 

Moderation 

The Measure of Worth 226 

POEMS FOR THE CHILDREN. 
Coals of Fire 231 



235 
235 



237 



The Orphan Prince 

A School-Girl's Trials 

Song — Work for All to Do .... 

Grimalkin 23S 

A Rhymed Epistle to Fred 240 

Lost Treasures . 241 

A Botanical Baby 242 

The Victor VANqyisHED . . . . . • ^\\ 

Old Mr. Santa Claus ...... 246 

The Unattainable 200 

The First "Bang" 249 

The Two Weavers 250 

Retaliation . 252 

School Song (Parting Ode") 254 



PREFACE. 

It may not be inappropriate to give a few words 
of explanation concerning tlie '' War Waifs " that 
introduce this volume. The author was a resident 
of Suffolk, Va., during a greater part of the late 
Civil War. The place was occupied as an outpost, 
and the condition of its inhabitants, under the 
alternate sway of the contending armies, was not 
an enviable one. The helpless women and chil- 
dren of the town would have suffered for the bare 
necessities of life had it not been for the kindness 
of the Federal Army. The author remembers 
with lively gratitude one occasion on which the 
generous and timely aid rendered by Gen. N. M. 
Curtis, the " Hero of Fort Fisher," saved both her 
child and herself from impending starvation. 

A few of the poems were written during that 
.period, but most of them were subsequently com- 
posed from a diary of the events as they occurred. 
Many of the dead and wounded of the battle of 
" Deserted House " were borne to hospitals imme- 
diately adjoining the author's residence, and one 



xli PREFACE. 

building on her premises was appropriated by the 
One Hundred and Twelfth N. Y. Vols., as a " Dead 
House." 

The battle of " Deserted House " began a little 
after two o'clock on the morning of January 30, 
1863, and continued till about noon of the same 
day, when the Confederates retreated across the 
Blackwater. The gallantry of many of the regi- 
ments in this engagement is rewarded in the 
official records with honorable mention. 

The Siege of Suffolk, by Gen. Longstreet, com- 
menced April 12, 1863, and continued about three 
weeks. This bombardment cost several lives, and 
no small destruction of property. Many of the 
helpless citizens, fleeing from their burning dwel- 
lings, rushed excitedly between the skirmishing 
lines and thus lost their lives in attempting to es- 
cape from an impending peril. One family, whose 
house had caught fire, attempted to seek safety 
within the Federal Lines, the mother carrying an 
infant in her arms. She was instantly killed, but 
the rest of the family escaped unhurt. 

It was during this siege that Ned Buntline, of 
Dime Novel fame, wrote a pathetic letter to Gen. 
Peck, asking to be temporarily released from prison, 
(where he was confined for inebriation) that he 
might " help do some of the fighting." His peti- 



PREFACE. xiii 

tion was granted, and he did good service during 
the siege. 

For information concerning dates and many- 
other important points, the author is indebted to 
the following named : — 

Gen. N. M. Curtis ; Gen. Jno. Palmer, Com- 
mander-in-Chief, G. A. R. ; Dr. Charles M. Clark, 
Thirty-ninth 111. Vols. ; Capt. Samuel Culberton, 
and Hon. Edgar A. Day (both of the First N. Y. 
Dragoons); Mr. Geo.W. Wiggins, Sixth Mass. Inf. ; 
Serg. Henry C. Van Vechten, First N. Y. Mounted 
Rifles, and Mr. Geo. E. Lowry, Secy and Treas., 
Thirteenth Ind. Vet. Association. 

That the War Waifs may be of interest, not only 

to those who took an active part in the events to 

which they refer, but to all who love their country 

and their country's flag, is the sincere wish of the 

author. 

M. A. B. K. 

Albany, Dec. i, 1891. 



WAR WAIFS, 



INTRODUCTION. 

"Weave these sad experiences into rliyme ; so that the 
harmony of verse, the blessings of peace to come, and the 
healing hand of time, may soften the remembrance of what 
you are now passing through." (Extract from a letter written 
by Mrs. Elizabeth Curtis Wallace, who under the pseudonym 
of " Allie Zandt," became a popular contributor of war-items 
to the leading journals of the South.) 

Dear Allie Zandt, I sit alone 

In sorrow and in silence now, 
And do thy bidding. Years have flown. 

Since last I pressed upon thy brow 
The farewell kiss ; but from my heart 
Thine imaged grace will ne'er depart. 

As in my ear the pearly shell 

Sings of the ocean far away, 
So in my heart sweet memories dwell 

And chide me for my long delay 
In gleaning, through the weary years. 
These blossoms born of blood and tears. 



MEMORIES OF THE SIEGE OF 
SUFFOLK. 

On the evening of the 19th of April, 1863, a company of 
the 89th New York Volunteers — Lieut. Col. England— and 
a company of the Sth Connecticut Volunteers— Lieut. Ward — 
embarked on the gun-boat Stepping-Stones — Lieut. Lamson 
— and led on by General Getty, they stormed and took a bat- 
tery from the enemy stationed at Hill's Point, on the west 
side of the Nansemond. The rebel loss : two killed, six 
■wounded, one hundred and thirty prisoners, seven of whom 
were officers, besides five brass pieces and a large supply of 
ammunition. Federal loss : three killed and five wounded. 

Virginia's fertile fields are waste and bare, 

For where the broom-straw waved, a year ago, 

White tents are pitched, and scattered, here and 
there, ' 

War's stern insignia lie ; while to and fro, 

The tramp of steel-clad men, and sabre's ring, 

Proclaim to earth and sky that War is King. 

Long lines of earth-works raise their frowning 
forms ; 

Deep rifle-pits their deadly secrets hide ; 
Low-flying vultures sweep the sky in swarms. 

In search of banquets, such as they provide 
Who rush to battle, and in mortal strife, 
Yield up the mystery that men call Life. 



4 IVAJ^ WAIFS. 

A little hamlet, desolate, forlorn, 

Its homes dismantled, and in ruins laid, 

Awakes in startled fear, this April morn ; 
For ere the crystal lines of amber fade 

Low in the east, the cloud-distended sky 

Fore-warns of death and danger, lurking nigh. 

Swift couriers are flying here and there, 

The signal-flag that crowns the " Merry Oak " 

Its mystic message floats upon the air, 

And they who read its meaning, pale, invoke 

The God of battles, while the long-roll's beat 

Sends forth its call to conquest or defeat. 

Then speeds the news : — The guards are driven in ! 

The enemy appear before the town 
With Longstreet at their head ! Now, who would 
win 

The hero's fadeless laurels of renown. 
Must charge the foe, pursue him in the race, 
And challenge Death's dark sentry, face to face. 

From yonder belt of woods there comes the boom 
Of loud-mouthed cannon, as their hissing throats 

Fierce warnings issue, of impending doom ; 
While 'mid the roar, the call of bugle-notes 

And stirring drum-beats through the camps re- 
sound. 

And rouse to action all the tented ground. 

Oh, hapless homes of a beleaguered town ! 

O, fear-blanched matrons, gather to your side 
Your helpless broods ; the storm beats fiercely 
down. 



WAR WAIFS. 5 

The storm of iron hail, — where will ye hide ? 
Where find a refuge from the bloody hand 
That desolates and darkens all the land ? 

For see ! Along the clay-cleft road is borne 
An army litter, and stark dead and cold, 

A woman's form outstretched ! Let Pity mourn, 
And soft-eyed Sympathy her arms enfold 

Around the orphaned babe, with starved lips 
pressed 

Against its mother's chill and pulseless breast. 

Day follows day, and messengers of wrath 
Flame-footed, speed from rifle-pit and fort, 

While ghastly ruin marks their bloody path ; 

Meanwhile, there comes the steady, strong report 

Of distant gun-boats, on the Nanseraond, 

That fiercely, to the rebel taunts, respond. 

Now solemn Night unrolls her sable screen : 
And flashing up against the somber sky, 

The fitful blaze of War's red torch is seen 
Above uncofifined forms that stricken, lie 

Where they their debt of duty nobly paid, 

'Neath straggling shot or scathing enfilade. 

And all along the outer picket line, 

Keen eyes are peering through the veil of night, 
To catch the gleam where rebel camp-fires shine ; 

For, firmly planted on the frowning height 
Above the river's bank, they dimly ken 
The Stribbling Battery, held by Pickett's men. 



6 WAR WAIFS. 

Now on the night-air breaks the cannon's roar, 
And far and near, swift, fiery missiles scream ; 

Look, from the Nansemond's deep, winding shore 
The gun-boat Stepping-Stones moves down the 
stream ! 

Waist deep, her heroes land, and stem the flow. 

Then scale the height and fiercely charge the foe. 

With sudden shout they rush upon the rear, 
And now with hand to hand, and steel to steel 

They sternly grapple, till a lengthened cheer, 
That rises o'er the cannon's deaf 'ning peal, 

Proclaims the victory, — 'tis done, 'tis done, 

The rebel fort with all it holds, is won ! 



AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE. 

'Tis night in camp, the guns are stilled, 
And bright the watch-fires glow ; 

The soldiers' hearts with hope are filled, 
And while the fires burn low, 

And ere the tattoo calls to rest, 

They pass the hour with song and jest : — 

SONG. 

Oh, we fear not the gray-back that stealthily glides 
Through the vine-tangled swamp where the cop- 
per-head hides ; 
For the Somerton Road it is guarded with care. 
While the Boys of the Sixth Massachusetts are 
there, — 



WAR WAIFS. 7 

The brave boys that through Baltimore marched 

undismayed, 
And handled their guns as if war were their trade ! 
Then what boots it to us, this wild rumor that flies. 
Of the skulking guerilla, sharp-shooters, and spies ? 

We have Foster's and Terry's and Murphy's Bri- 
gades, 

And we'll welcome the foe with our grand fusil- 
lades ; 

And if any rash Reb should still venture too near, 

Then good old Pennsylvania will toss him a Spear ! 

So we're ready for Jenkins, we're waiting for Hood, 
And we scoff at the foe in the dark cypress wood ; 
For our rifles are trusty, our bayonets keen. 
And with Davis's Battery playing between 
The strong Somerton Road and the face of the foe, 
Sure, his path will be rough and his march will be 

slow ; 
Then hurrah for our country, three cheers upon 

three. 
For " The home of the brave and the land of the 

free." 



. THE HERO OF FORT SEWARD. 

During the siege of Suffolk, Va., a half-clad infant, escap- 
ing from its mother's care, found its way to Fort Sev.ard, 
situated in the rear of the Sixth Massachusetts Hospital. Dr. 
Walter Burnham actually tore the flannel pennon from his 
flag-staff and gave it to the mother of the child. As he pre- 
sented it, he good-naturedly observed, "All that our staff 
needs is to stick to its colors, and a cotton flag will keep it 
warm enough ! " 



8 WAR WAIFS. 

Through all the camp a rumor runs, to-day, 
Fort Seward's taken ! 
Fort Seward taken ? How ? By whom ? 
Upon the air there falls no boom 
Of wrathful cannon, near nor far away, 
While banner-crowned, the stately bastions loom 
Tall, proud, unshaken. 

A pygmy soldier, — such is the report, — 
(Mere rumor, may be), 
Attacked, and captured, on the spot. 
The garrison, without a shot. 
Know ye the little Reb that stormed the fort ? 
Behold, he smiling stands ! Oh, harm him not, 
'Tis some one's baby. 

His thread-bare coat is like the Rebel rag, 
Less tattered, may be ; 
But not a hero in the land. 
More cheerful homage may command, — 
For see ! The hospital hauls down its flag. 
And puts it in the happy mother's hand. 
To clothe her baby ! 

From hand to hand he passes, — crowned with 
gifts, — 

Glad, smiling, fearless. 
His dash was brilliant, bloodless, bold. 
But he the garrison will hold ; 
For as his questioning glance to each he lifts, 
And as his chubby arms their necks enfold. 
His eyes are tearless. 



M'AR WAIFS. 9 

A SOLDIER'S HISTORY. 

I went into a hospital to-day, 
And there, outstretched upon their narrow beds, 
Men wounded, helpless, wan and haggard lay; 
And some there were whose lives like brittle 

threads 
Half-severed hung, as with hot, labored breath 
And film-blurred eyes they blindly fought with 

Death. 

The surgeon met me, — curt and rough of speech, 

But tender as a woman in his thought ; 

" There's one poor devil yonder, past the reach 

Of human help," he said. — I turned and caught 

The meaning of his words, and for the rest, 

If Death be friend or foe, God knoweth best. 

Before me, lay a soldier, young, — as age 
Is measured by the swiftly fleeting years ; 
But in the volume of a life, one page 
May hold a record, blotted o'er with tears, 
That would a strange, unsolved enigma be 
To him whose life is pure and glad and free. 

For it is hard to stand, in thought, where stood 
An erring brother, when the tempter came 
And smote him blind to every sense of good, 
And left him helpless in the path of shame, 
To wake at last, soul-smitten, hopeless, faint, 
With that heart-hunger which no words can paint. 

I write the story of a ruined life. 
Unvarnished, plain, as it was told to me. — 



lo WAR WAIFS. 

A sin-wrecked soul has passed from earthly strife, 
Passed to that far Beyond where'er it be, — 
To mourn, ah, nevermore, — who dares gainsay, 
The fault of his long, tearful yesterday : — 

My home was in the fair, broad West 
Where rose-hued sunbeams sink to rest, 
And flush with each deep, mellow ray 
Tall, cloud-capped summits, distance-gray, 
And thrifty vales and dappled hills. 
Hemmed in with silver-threaded rills. 

'Twas there my boyhood days were spent, 
And there my father toiled, content, 
Nor cast one look of vain regret 
Back o'er the past. But when I met 
A pensive look, sometimes a tear 
Up-springing to my mother's eyes, — 
(Sweet orbs as soft as April skies,) 
I questioned why. " 'Tis naught, my dear, 
'Twill pass away," she quick replies, 
"And we are very happy here." 

I was so young, I could not know 
That over-care would make her old ; 
But thought my mother's locks of gold, 
And rounded throat, as white as snow. 
Their beauty would forever hold ; 
Nor dreamed that in her breast there lay 
A tearful longing, hidden deep, 
For home and kindred, far away. 
Where eastern hills and valleys sleep. 



WAR WAIFS. 

No gladsome mates had I to share 

My childhood sports ; but oft there came 

A little maid with auburn hair, 

And rosy lips and cheeks aflame 

With bashful blushes as she stood 

In budding sweetness, fair, as good. 

And when with furtive glance I scanned 

Her modest face, with grieved surprise 

I noted oft that in her eyes 

The rounded tear-drops seemed to stand. 

But soon I learned to frame in speech 
The sympathy I sought to lend ; 
And she in turn would shyly reach 
Her dainty hand to mine and bend 
A listening ear to hear me tell 
Strange fairy-tales. Ah, passing well 
I loved that little maid to teach, 
The little maid named Isabel. 

One morning when the frosty air 
Of bleak December silvered o'er 
The wood and stubble everywhere, 
She came and sat beside our door 
In orphaned grief; and from that day 
She turned no more her steps away, 
But lived in glad content to share 
My mother's love, my father's care. 

Years passed, and ever at my side 
My foster-sister kept her pace ; 
In task or game, with wistful pride 
She sought her merit in my face ; 



12 WAR WAIFS. 

No higher umpire did she ask, 
Joy-crowned if I approved her task ; 
And to my heart an answer sent 
With eyes that voiced her mute content. 

The touching story sweetly told 
Of Paul and fair Virginia's fate, 
We verified ; for days of old, 
And days that are their secrets hold, 
Of hearts that oft untimely mate, — 
Linked by the mystic tie of fate, — 
To turn at last so strangely cold 
That all the world seems desolate ! 

Our hidden love we dared not tell, 
But kept the secret guarded well ; 
And they who saw us, day by day, 
With growing fondness, closer cling, 
Saw but two children at their play ; 
And when I placed a shining ring . 
Upon her dimpled hand one day. 
She spoke no word, she made no sign, 
But raised her soft brown eyes to mine, 
In glad response no words could tell ; 
And then in secret Isabel 
Became my bride ! I meant no wrong. 
But oft 'tis proved in tale and song, 
That secret pledge, whate'er it be. 
Gives rein to infidelity. 

As years sped on I restless grew ; 
My father's clovered acres smiled 



WAR WAIFS. 

As fragrant, broad, and fair, to view, 
As when I roamed, a happy child 
Along the shaded, crystal rills 
That led from distant, sapphire hills 
Through field and wood and velvet dell. 
Content with my good Isabel. 

But that great, boundless world outside, 
Sent to my ear its throbbing sound. — 
'Tis strange how oft our paths divide 
When heart to heart is closest bound ! 
I left my home, my sister-bride. 
And from that hour my breast hath found 
No lasting joy. The swelling tide, 
Of wild ambition's wave hath drowned 
My struggling soul and, tempest-tossed, 
I've wandered helpless, hopeless, lost. 

Temptation wove its baleful snare ; 
I fell and learned to crush at last. 
The bitter grief, the wild despair 
That o'er my life their shadows cast ; 
And from my breast the prompter hurled 
That frowned, when fortune spoke me fair, 
Clutched at my heart and sought to bare 
My hidden secret to the world. 

I learned to smile with lips that lied, 

And found it not a stupid task ; 

In base deceit each art I plied, 

Neath falsehood's fair, illusive mask ; 

But conscience oft renewed her claim 

And spurned the price that purchased fame. 



14 IVAR WAIFS. 

The hearts and hands of men I won ; 

I rose to honor and renown, 

And gloried in my rising sun 

When beauty smiled, and wealth bowed down ; 

Then to my heart serenely said, 

"Thou hast no past, thy past is dead." 

But fame is a light recompense, 
As empty as the Syren's song, 
And will not heal nor hush the sense 
Of having wrought a lasting wrong ; 
And he who lives a dual life. 
Writhes in a self-accusing strife ! 

At length a hungry longing came 

To see once more my boyhood's home. 

I strove to hide the blush of shame 

That tinged my cheek, as thoughts would come 

Of just reproach and bitter blame, 

And bid me wait, till years on years 

Had steeled fond hearts and dried their tears. 

With throbbing pulse I stood once more 

Within the open cottage door ; 

But not alone, for by my side, 

I led a newly-wedded bride ! 

So reckless, cruel, and unjust. 

So lost to shame, so false to trust. 

May man become when passion's reign 

Enslaves the heart and mads the brain. 

A little child with soft, brown eyes, — 
Such eyes a heritage must be ! 



WAR WAIFS. 15 

Glanced shyly up, in scared surprise, 
Then questioned: — "Did you come to see 
The place where mama's ma is laid ? 
They put her there, a week ago. 
I'll show the way, I'm not afraid." — 

No wonder that the crimson glow 
Of shame forsook my guilty cheek ! 
Crushed, trembling, stunned beneath the blow, 
I scarce could stand, I could not speak, 
And bowed my head in silent woe. 

Then on my ear there sweetly fell 
Glad words of welcome, tender, low, 
Like echoes of the long ago. 
I raised my eyes, and Isabel 
Before me stood ! The fires of hell 
Consumed me then ; for well I knew 
That she was brave, and pure, and true, 
And I more false than tongue can tell. 

A woman's grace will pardon wrong. 
And shield the hand that stabs, and yet 
Her heart be true, her trust be strong; 
But when her trust with scorn is met. 
What deeper anguish may she know } 
Death cannot deal a surer blow. 

How like a burnished blade of steel 
Her glance went to my coward breast. 
As statue like, in mute appeal 
She stood, with choking sob suppressed, 
Her pallid lips and eyes a-strain 



1 6 WAR WAIFS. 

Revealing all her speechless pain. 
The wasted form, — the hectic glow 
That played upon her marble cheek, 
Betrayed her soul-consuming woe 
More touchingly than words could speak. 

A moment thus she mutely stood, 
And then the vital, crimson flood 
Burst from her lips. — I wear the stain 
On hand and heart, and say " 'tis well." — 
I sprang to save her, but in vain. 
She fled my touch, and lifeless fell 
Prone at my feet, slain Isabel ! 

The whirlwind's breath hath swept my track, 

I've harvested my bitter-sweet ; 

She gave me truth, and blindly back 

I threw the jewel at her feet. 

Through years of silence she had borne 

My mother's doubt, my father's scorn, 

To shield me from their righteous blame ; 

And from her finger tore the band 

That proved her just and legal claim 

As any mother in the land, 

To give my child her father's name. 

The years wear on. My child hath grown 

To maidenhood. But from that day 

Her orphaned heart hath never known 

The need of mother-love. Away 

Beyond the western hills they bide. 

And I, — what right have I to claim 

One tender thought } My child .? My bride } 

Mine only in an empty name I 



WAR WAIFS. i; 

I've harvested my bitter-sweet, 
I've drunk the bottom dregs of sin ; 
I've roamed with weary, restless feet, 
Nor paused, nor dared to look within ; 
And sought forgetfulness in vain. 
From pole to pole, and main to main. 

Sweet love hath nestled near my heart, 
With weary wing and panting breast ; 
Unmoved, I saw her, grieved, depart, 
I could not give her pinions rest ; 
And beauty with her magic spell 
Hath sought to woo me but in vain ; 
For ne'er will bloom, in vale or dell. 
So fair a flower as Isabel, 
Nor throbs a heart so free from stain, 
Nor beats so true, nor loves so well. 

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 

"As every place at the South, occupied by the Union forces, 
is denied all communication with the Southern army, many 
of us have not heard from our husbands in twelve months. 
If they fall, we shall never know when nor where, especially 
those who have gone out as privates under the Conscript 
Act." — Extract from a letter. 

The moonbeams came so bright, Charlie, 
The moonbeams came so bright. 

And wove their soft, white drapery 
- Round the baby's crib, to-night, 

That I wondered if the soldiers. 
And you, among the rest, 

Were talking 'neath the moonlight 
Of the hearts that love you best. 



I8 WAR WAIFS. 

There are days when storm-clouds gather. 

And the rain comes falHng fast ; 
Days wherein no summer sunshine 

Smiles away the howling blast ; 
Then I wonder if the soldiers, 

And you of all the rest, 
Have outside cheer and comfort, 

And hope within your breast. 

There are days when burning sunbeams 

Kiss the parched and arid earth, 
Days when floret-eyes are turning 

Toward the banks that gave them birth, 
Pleading vainly for the wavelets 

That so oft have washed away 
The dew that droops their eyelids 

At the early peep of day ; 

Then I wonder if the soldier 

'Neath the fiercely burning sun, 
Is panting out his life-breath 

On the field just lost or won ; 
And I tremble, as I wonder 

Whether you, of all the rest, 
Are lost on earth, forever, 

To the heart that loves you best ! 



WE TWO. 

Sleep, baby mine, though through the murky air 
The solid shot and shrieking shell resound ; 
While lurid flames light up the sky, and round 



WAR WAIFS. 19 

Our quaking tenement, the horrid glare 
Of burning homesteads pictures wild despair. 
Swift meteors of wrath fall to the ground 
With hissing threat, on Death's dread errand 
bound ; 
And soon, with arms reversed, shall they who bear 
Their fallen comrade to his resting-place 

Beside the rolling Nansemond, slow pass 
Before me, while I gaze with pallid face ; 

For on some future day, we two, — alas, 
When War's red chariot hath run its race. 

May seek with tear-dimmed eyes, — a mound of 

grass ! 
Suffolk, Va., April 25, 1863. 

OLD AUNT MILLY. 

Do you mark the little cabin standing near that 

clump of pine. 
Where the bamboo's jointed tendrils round the 

cypress-knees entwine ; 
Where the mulberry's bare rootlets, twisted and 

rheumatic, coil 
In and out among the holly that defies the barren 

soil ? 

Well, that cabin is Aunt Milly's, and from early 

■ dawn of day. 
Till the tattoo beats at evening, poor old Milly 

toils away 
At her " washin' fur de sojers," — and though shot 
and shell may speed 



20 WAR WAIFS. 

On their sure or doubtful errands, still Aunt Milly 
takes no heed ; 

But with sleeves rolled to her elbows, and bandana 

of bright red 
Folded "zactly on de bias," and coiled round her 

grizzly head, 
She blends music with her labor, till she makes 

the cabin ring, 
And 'twould fill your heart with gladness, just to 

hear old Milly sing : — 

De Lawd He sent an angel down 

To set His people free; 
Den come my lub-e-ly bred-er-en, 

Oh, come along wi' me ; 
De boat it is a waitin' fur 

To take po' sinners in. 
An' when yo've landed on de sho' 

Yo'll drap dat load ob sin ; 

De Lawd He'll take it all away, 

An' place yo' on de groun', 
Wi' silver slippers on yo're feet 
To walk ole Jordan roun'. 
I feel like, I feel like, 
I feel like marchin' on ; 
I feel like, I feel like, 
I feel like marchin' on. 

Dey dun and tuk de Lawd ob love, 
And nailed Him to de cross on high, 

Had I de whings ob Noah's-es dove 
I'd sing and praise Him twell I die. 



WAR WAIFS. 21 

It pears like, it pears like 
I'm on my journey home ; 
It pears like, it pears like 
I'm on my journey home. 



"DAN."* 
(Written at Suffolk, Va., Nov. 3, 1S62.) 
Dan is a jolly good fellow, 

And Dan is gay, dashing, and bold, 
He always looks out for the ladies. 

No matter how young, or how old ! 
In short, he's the qualifications 

(We'll say it aloud, for we can), 
To make him the chief among mortals, 

A high-hearted, whole-hearted man. 

His pockets know never a famine. 

They leak, but they leak at the top, 
A fault that few people complain of 

(I know one or two who do not) ; 
So all the young cousins at Christmas 

March up to his room, to a man. 
And "salute," as they grasp the bright quarter 

Held out by their dear " Cousin Dan." 

Dan travels way down in Secessia, 
He's seen ail the mules and a — bare 

And desolate region of country. 
As ever he saw anywhere ; 

* Adjutant Daniel C. Liggett, Second Ohio Vols. 



; IVAR WAIFS. 

He says that one Buck of Ohio 

Is worth a plantation of mules, 
But Dan never learned how to " reckon " 

According to Secession rules ! 

He wears some " brass straps " on his shoulders ; 

Wears long-legged boots, and all that, 
But still he retains all his senses ! 

He knows how to relish a chat 
With every fine fellow about him, — 

Is bound to enjoy all he can. 
And all the "good boys " in camp hail him 

By no other title than " Dan." 

He always speaks well of the ladies 

(I know he'd speak well of his wife). 
'Tis a marvel he should have stayed single 

These long dreary years of his life ; 
But when this great conflict is over, 

And Peace shall be stayed in her flight. 
Should there be a great rush to the Union, 

Why, Dan will be forced to unite ! 



THE SIEGE RAISED. 

Sad April skies have wept their fill, 
Dark clouds no more their tears distill, 
And smiling May, with garlands fair. 
Her fragrance sheds on, all the air ; 



WAR WAIFS. 

She comes, a harbinger of peace, 
For lo, the sounds of battle cease ! 
Bright banners wave from strong redoubts. 
While contrabands, and trusty scouts 
And couriers, with flying feet 
Report the foe in full retreat ! 
The fury of the storm is past. 
The Val-father speaks peace at last ; 
The deep Blackwater rolls between 
Besieger and besieged. The scene 
Is changed, and all the camp rings out 
With song, and cheer, and victor's shout. 

And now each heart beats high again, 
For yonder comes the Wagon-train ! 
Up to the hub, in miry clay, 
The clumsy " U. S." makes its way. 
Brimful of treasures, packed with care, — 
Good news from home, and tid-bits rare 
From loving hands, and hearts too true 
To e'er forget the Boys in Blue ! 

Now round the evening mess they throng. 

With merry tale and jocund song ; 

Nor pause to mend their home-spun verse 

As they their martial deeds rehearse, 

Till all too soon the tattoo's sound 

Is heard. The sentry makes his round, 

The dying camp-fire's fitful light 

Dies out, and fold on fold, the night 

Envelops camp and field, once more 

In peaceful rest. — The Siege is o'er. 



23 



24 WAR WAIFS. 

BATTLE OF DESERTED HOUSE. * 

(Read at the Ninth Annual Reunion of the Old Guard, 
held at Indianapolis, Sept. 23, 1891.) 

'Tis midnight. Slumber's balm hath sealed 
The soldier's eyelids, and the moon 
Looks calmly down on tent and field ; 
And as her mellow light is shed 
O'er all the sleeping camp, outspread, 
The soldier dreams, — but ah, too soon 
His blissful dream of home hath fled ! 

Mid-winter holds his icy reign. 
And from their fleecy tents the stars 
Step forth to join that brilliant train 
The rear guard of the mighty Mars. 

But see ! There speeds with flashing light 
Athwart the sky, a single star 
That slips beneath the moon's pale bar 
And darting down, is lost to sight. 
Who knows, but 'mid the shining host 
Some sentinel forsakes his post ? 

And now beneath the winter sky 
Our columns stand in full array 
To fight, perchance to fall, — to die ! 
We question not — But who shall say 
That in the bravest hero's eye 



* A point nine miles west of Suffolk, Va., held bv the Con- 
federate General, Roger A. Pryor. 



WAR WAIFS. 25 

There glistens no uprising tear 
(Born not of craven-hearted fear), 
But for the loved ones, far away ? 

Spear's Cavalry, with clattering speed, 
In swift advance our columns lead ; 
And as by twos they onward dash, 
A sudden whizz, — a musket's flash 
With startling force breaks on the air ! 
They heed it not, but boldly dare 
The foe with answering sabre's clash. 
Ah, how they charge ! See, everywhere 
Their glancing weapons, gleaming bright, 
Flash back the full moon's flooding light. 
Then rises loud the mingled shout, 
"They've put the rebel guards to rout ! " 
And wild huzzas, and cheer on cheer 
Resound from front, and flank, and rear. 

Now forward rush our fleet deploys ! 
Through wood and swamp they fearless go, 
The "Thirteenth Indiana Boys," 
With bayonets fixed to charge the foe. 
On, on, they press, till lost to sight, 
Then all is veiled in blackest night ; 
For now, alas, the waning moon 
Dies out, and scout and bold dragoon 
Must stand, with hearts that never quail, 
And blindly face the leaden hail. 

Now Follett's guns with thunder-tones 
Join Davis's in fiery wrath. 



26 WAR WAIFS. 

While piercing shrieks and stifled groans 
Mark well the War-king's reddened path ; 
And men and horses moaning lie 
Beneath the cold and starless sky, 
In pools of blood and thickets damp ; 
Nor heed the rush, nor hear the tramp 
Of those who brave this woeful night 
Without one star their path to light. 

But as they, blind, bewildered, go, 

The darkness veiling friend and foe, 

Whence comes that crash, — that sudden light? 

A rebel death-bolt on its way 

Has struck a caisson ! — Clear and bright. 

As shines the sun at full mid-day. 

The flames leap up, and now the foe 

Learns where to strike his surest blow. 

His vantage-ground, he seizes, — quick 
His missiles search our ranks, and thick 
The field is strewn with heroes slain. 
Where whizzing bullets fall like rain. 

The flames are quenched, and sable Night 
Again spreads out her gloomy pall ; 
By shot and shell, on left and right. 
Scorched, scattered, now our comrades fall, 
And mangled, torn, and crushed, they're found 
Stretched lifeless on the frozen ground. 

At length we hail the rosy beam 
That ushers in the dawn of day ; 
And though the deadly missiles scream 
Amid our ranks, firm on our way 



JVAR WAIFS. 27 

We form battalion lines, nor yield 
Till we have charged across the field, 
To deal the last decisive blow 
Upon the swiftly flying foe. 

Well may each standard-bearer claim 
The proud inscription, written here.* 
New York will mourn her martyred slain. 
And Pennsylvania drop a tear 
Upon the graves of those who fell 
To save the flag they loved so well ; 
For from the East and from the West, 
Men side by side, unflinching, stood, 
Nerved by the cause, dear to each breast. 
That bound them in one brotherhood. 

From Massachusetts' classic hills 

To Indiana's rolling plains. 

Each loyal heart with ardor thrills 

At sight of those deep, crimson stains, 

That on our ensigns floating free. 

Record our hard-won victory. 

As o'er our fallen brave, we breathe 
A prayer of faith, that for each brow 
The gentle hand of Peace may wreathe 
A lasting chaplet, let us bow 
And to the God of battles yield 
The glory of the blood-bought field. 

I request that there may be inscribed upon the resfi- 
mental colors, " Blackwater and Deserted House." — Col. 
Samuel C. Spear, Eleventh Penn. Cavalry. 



28 WAR WAIFS. 

TWO YEARS AGO. 

(Written during the war, and published as a tribute to the 
One Hundred and Twelfth N. Y. Vols.) 

Two years ago, when summer flowers 

Were shrinking 'neath September's frown, 
When Nature, rich with autumn's dowers, 

Exchanged her green, for robes of brown ; 
Chautauqua's sons, her pride, her boast, 

As Freedom's breast its wounds revealed, 
Went forth to join the mighty host 

Already on the battle-field. 

The widow's only son was there, — 

Alas, how could she bid him stay. 
When aged men, with hoary hair. 

Their armor burnished for the fray? 
Wives, mothers, daughters, sisters all 

A parting blessing freely gave, 
In answer to that earnest call, — 

"To arms ! To arms ! Your country save ! " 

And nobly has that gallant band 

The soldier's toils and perils shared, 
As 'neath the banner of their land 

Their bosoms to the foe they bared ; 
For some lie sleeping on the plains 

Where mingled hosts of dead repose, 
And some, mayhap, in captive chains 

In sorrow pine 'mid cruel foes. 



WAR WAIFS. 29 

And some there were whose spirits burned 

To hasten to the deadly fray, — 
But ah, their coffined forms returned 

Before its sounds had died away. 
Their coffined forms ! alas, the woe 

That clad the home, the heart, the face. 
Ah, Death, it was a cruel blow 

That years on years may not erase. 

Along the winding Nansemond 

They're scattered, too, in dreamless sleep ; 
Above their graves the dew-plants bloom, 

And there, like silent mourners, weep. 
Two little years, — alas, how few 

Of all that noble band remain ! 
Of all those hearts, so tried and true, 

How few shall greet us here again ! 

THE LAST TATTOO. 

" The number is growing less and less as each year makes 
its changes. Soon ' Taps ' and ' Lights Out ! ' will be sounded 
for the last one in our number, by the grim camp-follower of 
us all — Death! — only to awake at the 'Reveille' of Ga- 
briel, as he summons us for final account." — Extract from 
the History of the Thirty-Ninth Illinois Regiment, -written by 
Charles M. Clark, M. D., late Surgeon of the Regiment. 

Death sounds for all the last " tattoo," 

Deep silence reigns ; night closes round ; 

The restful sleep that none may woo, 

And none may break, strange, still, profound. 

Beclouds each sense. — Friends, tearful, strew 

Spring violets, and meadow-rue. 

And mark the spot as hallowed ground. 



so WAR WAIFS. 

Each winter spreads a veil of snow, 

Each summer braids a tender wreath 

For some new grave. — Years come and go ; 

But they who rest in peace beneath 

The winter's blast, the summer's glow, 

Hid not the sword within its sheath 

Till it had dealt the final blow ! 

What rarer gift can man bequeath 

Than life, to stay a nation's woe ? 

And when they meet in Grand Review 

Before the final Judgment Hall, 

Think ye, the "Boys " who donned the "Blue' 

Responsive to their country's call 

Will blanch with fear ? Nay, is it true 

He heedeth e'en a sparrow's fall ? 

Then will he mete to each his due. 

And justly, wisely, judge us all. 



A REBEL'S SOUVENIR. 

Swift rushing, Death's challenge to meet, 

But still rushing bravely to death. 
The masses in gray fell like chaff at our feet 

Swept down by our cannon's hot breath. 

But now breaking ranks, see, they yield 

At last to our fierce, galhng fire ! 
And, leaving their wounded and dead on the field 

In wildest confusion, retire; 



WAR WAIFS. 31 

Retire in the direst dismay, 

And flee to the sheltering pines ; 
And now from the field, both the blue and the gray 

Are gently borne back to our lines. 

What was it the soldier in gray 

With face cold and white as the snow, 

Held tightly within his clinched hand as he lay 
Stark dead at the feet of his foe ? 

Nay smile not with scorn as you scan 
The verses his sweetheart hath penned ; 

Perchance when the " fight at Manassas " began. 
Your poet foresaw not the end ! 



GOD SPEED, 

Now God speed thee, thou art going from thy 

childhood's home away, 
At the call of duty going, and what charm shall 
bid thee stay ? 
Every tie is calmly broken, 
Every farewell firmly spoken, 
And thy proud eye gives no token 

Of regret nor fear, to-day. 
As with voices strong and steady. 
Comes the watch-word, "We are ready," — 
Ready for the toils, aye, ready. 

That await us on the way. 
******** 

When we see the proud light burning 
In each fearless victor's eye, 



32 WAR WAIFS. 

Then we'll know that Southern spirit hath taught 

conquered foes to fear it, 
And we'll sacredly revere it, as a thing that cannot 

die. 

Blood-stained is the parchment, and worn, 
And scarcely the words we discern, — 

" God speed," — 'tis the prayer of a heart that 
is torn 
With grief for the hero's return ! 

THE NAMELESS HEROINE. 

"The men of the Seventj-sixth will not soon forget, and 
I should fail in the performance ofmj duty, did I not mention 
the 'Nameless Heroine' who, with a cup in each hand, so 
busily dealt out water to the thirsty boys, the tears of sym- 
pathy stealing down her lovely cheeks, as the wounded 
soldiers came hobbling by, until pierced by a rebel ball, she 
fell dead by the side of her pail !"— (Battle of Gettysburgh.) 
From the History of the Seventy-Sixth Regiment, N. Y. Vols, 
by Hon. A. P. Smith, First Lieut., and ^. M. of the Regi- 
ment. 

Oh, give honor and fame to the heroes who fought, 

And give laurels and tears to the martyrs who 

fell 

On that fierce July day when your columns were 

brought 

Face to face with the foe and his murderous shell. 

On that day when the daisy, white-robed like a 
bride. 
Shrank away from the carnage with fear-droop- 
ing eyes, 



WAR WAIFS. 33 

When the grass dipped its blade in the dark crim- 
son tide, 
And the sweet Dove of Peace winged her way 
to the skies. 

But when over the mounds of your heroes ye strew 
The first-born buds and blossoms of woodland 
and dell, 
When ye plant by the sod of your brave Boys in 
Blue 
The bright banner for which they so gallantly 
fell. 

Then forget not the grave where your heroine lies, 
Oh remember the maid who with heart strong 
and true. 

In the midst of the slaughter, with pitying eyes 
Bravely held out the cup of cold water to you : 

And with tender care, gather one blossom of white. 

With its heart crimson-tinted, and plant it alone. 

Where the willow droops low and the dews of the 

night 

Softly weep for the maiden unknelled and 

unknown. 



34 IVAR WAIFS. 

THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 

" The sight of the dead and dying made us feel rather 
sober. Here lay the dead body of a boy not more than 
eighteen years of age. How soon his career was ended! A 
young volunteer in the morning, a dead hero at night." — 
(Skirmish at Blackburn's Ford.) Fro7)i Todd's Seventy- 
Ninth Highlanders. 

Once as wayward fortune led me to a homestead 

quaint and old, 
While I shared its kindly shelter, this, the tale the 

good wife told : 
Ah, how Time's swift shadow passes, full ten years 

and more have fled, 
Since that patient, sad-eyed woman told the story 

of her dead ! 

In her hands she clasped a portrait, fair the face, as 

any girl's, 
Eyes of blue, beneath a forehead 'broidered o'er 

with auburn curls : 
Pleased, she told me of his boyhood, dwelt on all 

his winsome ways ; 
How he filled the house with sunshine. — Who can 

chide a mother's praise } 

Then a soldier, proud, he left her, armed to meet 
the deadly strife. 

And upon his country's altar laid the precious boon 
of life ; 

When his star of hope was brightest, when no 
cloudlet dimmed his sky, 

With his young life full of promise, lo, the sum- 
mons came to die ! 



WAR WAIFS. 35 

'Mid the din and smoke of battle, bravely facing 
shot and shell, 

He, whom Nature stamped a hero, like a hero, 
fighting fell. 

" Fell at Blackburn's Ford," she faltered, " fore- 
most he, and unafraid. 

Not a truer, braver soldier served in Richardson's 
brigade. 

" Only eighteen when he 'listed, 'tis just twenty 
years to-day, 

Twenty years of life in heaven," — and she, weep- 
ing, turned away, — 

Kissed the portrait of her hero, — put it in its 
wonted place, 

And again took up life's burden with a sweet and 
patient grace. 

Summer flowers have bloomed and withered on the 

turf above his breast, 
Winter snows have mocked the whiteness of the 

stone that marks his rest ; 
But the presence of his spirit from her soul will 

ne'er depart ; 
Like the bright wing of a seraph it shall gather 

round her heart. 



36 WAR WAIFS. 

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF DRURY's BLUFF. 

(Read at the Eleventh Annual Reunion of the Thirt_y- 
ninth Infantry, held at Joliet, Oct. 8, 1891.) 

There were dead men in blue, there were dead men 

in gray, 
There were columns that wavered, then melted 

away ; 
There were horses and riders stark, stiff on the sod, 
There were shouts, there were groans, and petitions 

to God ; 
While the hiss of the shrapnel, that volvox of war. 
Mocked the whizzing of bullets from near and from 

far. 

*• See that tall, plucky Yank ! a good target is he. 
And ril just go for him, else he may go for me." 
Quick as thought, from the fast-falling ranks of the 

gray 
Sped a bullet well-aimed, and a brave soldier lay 
Writhing, bleeding, and helpless, with film-blinded 

eyes 
Gazing upward in prayer to the pitiless skies. 

But when night spread a veil o'er the carnage of 

day. 
By the soldier in blue knelt a soldier in gray. 
Gently back from his forehead he brushed the soft 

curls 
And a face, finely chiseled and fair as a girl's, 



WAR WAIFS. 37 

Grimly stamped with the pallor of death, met his 

view. 
Starting back, he cried out, " Is it, can it be true ? 
Yes, too terribly true ! — and 'twas my hand that 

sped 
The swift ball on its errand ! Oh, speak to me, 

Fred! 

Let me hear from your lips that the deed you for- 
give, — 
See! The wound is not deep, — it will heal, — 

you will live, 
You must live, I will nurse you, my own hand 

shall heal 
This rough scratch, (curse the ball), — now my boy 

do you feel 
My strong arm underneath you? — Slow, steady, 

and rise 
When I give you the word." Then the film-clouded 

eyes 
Sought the face bending o'er them, the palHd lips 

stirred. 
" It — was — all — a — mistake, dearest — brother." 

Each word 

Fell in low, husky whispers. " You — loved — me 

— too — well 

To — send — such — a — grim — messenger ; — ah, 

but — I— fell — 
With — the — old — flag — above me ! Tell — 

mother — I — die — 
In — the — faith — that — she — taught — us ; and 

— tell — her — that— I 



38 WAR WAIFS. 

See, — beyond — the — dark — waters, the — clear 
— beacon — light. 

But — oh, — never — say how — I — was — slain — 
in — the — fight, — 

Hold — me — closer." 

Then fondly, with face pressed to face, 

And with heart close to heart, came the last long 
embrace. 

One hot kiss on the forehead, one grasp of the 
hand. 

And the soldier in blue at his Chieftain's command, 

Made salute, and passed up to that army above, 

Whose strong Leader is Christ, and whose Coun- 
tersign, " Love." 



THE LOST CAUSE. 

(A Confederate Retrospect.) 

You never saw the Heights } — So, So. 

Ah, then you've never seen 
The head-stones and the hillocks, low. 

With narrow paths between ; 
You've never seen the mound near by, 

Where 'neath one mammoth stone. 
Two thousand Yankee Soldiers lie, 

Marked — " Graves of the Unknown. 

Marked plain upon the paneled slab, 

And quite as plainly read ; 
But not so plain, my little lad. 

The cause for which they bled, — 



WAR WAIFS. 39 

"The Rebel hordes with whom they fought, 

Ought to he there," — you say ? 
Ah, boy, you think as you were taught, 

And so, no doubt, thought they. 

No matter now, 'tis past and gone, 

Forgotten and forgiven, 
And whether right, or whether wrong, 

They'll settle that in heaven. — 
But you should see proud Arlington 

Crowned, on her lofty height, 
No fairer prospect ever shone 

Beneath the sun's broad light. 

The thoughts of her rose-scented lanes 

With garden-plots ablaze, — 
And fertile fields, and blossomed plains 

Bring back the vanished days 
When on the Heights she sat, a queen, 

And, rolling calmly by. 
The broad Potomac's classic stream 

Smiled back Virginia's sky. 

The Heights.? Why, Lee's old home, — here, look, 

'Tis pictured on this chart ; 
My lad, you should not need a book. 

To know the thing by heart. 
You were not born ? So it appears, — 

Time flies as swift as light. 
Yes, yes, 'tis nearly thirty years 

Since Lee led on the fight. 



40 WAR WAIFS. 

Ah, Lee was Nature's true-born lord, 

With soul that could not wince, 
And armed with silver-hilted sword, 

He rode like any Prince ! 
His brow was clear, his eye was bright, 

His heart was true and strong. 
His arm was nerved to strike for right; 

He'd never strike for wrong. 

And proud were we, at his command. 

To rush into the fray. 
Some lost a head, some lost a hand, 

But none lost heart, that day. 
I gave my good right arm, — see, there. 

But I — I'll never grieve 
That for the Lost Cause I must wear 

Henceforth an empty sleeve. 



LAUREL-CROWNED. 

A Tribune, in the days of old, 

His life, a sacrifice, laid down, 
To guard his legions in their hold. 

For which he won a laurel-crown. 

Beneath a heap of stricken dead. 

The dauntless chief alive was found ; 

His comrades raised his feeble head, 

And proudly hailed him " Laurel-Crowned. 



WAR WAIFS. 41 

May we not boast our heroes, too, 

As brave as any land hath found ? 
And shall the victors, tried and true. 

Who died for us, remain uncrowned ? 

Nay, — raise the shaft that shall proclaim 

Their loyalty and love, profound ; 
Carve tearfully their wreath of fame. 

And proudly hail them " Laurel-Crowned." 



A CHRISTMAS EVE IN CAMP. 

'Tis Christmas eve in camp. Bright overhead 
The starry chandeliers their lustre shed 
On tent and fortress, and the gentle wing 
Of Peace above the camp seems hovering. 

Within the crowded ward, upon his bed 
A dying soldier lies. The nurse's tread 
Scarce breaks the stillness ; while the fitful light 
From blazing fagots paints strange scenes to-night, 
And on the whitewashed walls weird shadows creep 
Of phantom forms that from the embers leap. 

The soldier watches the fantastic play. 

Then slowly turns his tearful eyes away. 

For had he passed unscathed from out the fight, 

A furlough would have crowned this Christmas 

night, 
And by the cheerful fire-light of his home 
He might have watched the shadows go and come : 
And so through all this night of sore unrest 
A deep home-yearning fills his saddened breast. 



42 WAR WAIFS. 

His wistful glance brings quickly to his side 
The watchful nurse; but with a soldier's pride 
He checks the falling tear, and whispers, "Tell 
The ' Boys ' I send them all a kind farewell ; 
Sit near and press your hand against my side ; 
The night has seemed so long, and I have tried 
To bear the pain alone ; but now I know 
My hour has come; and so before I go, 

I want to give you this, for mother. Lift 
My head a little, there ! This Christmas gift 
I lately carved for her — a crown, and cross 
With rosary. Oh, she will mourn my loss 
And weep for me, poor heart ! For I am all 
She has on earth ; yet at my country's call 
She bade me go ! 

The Christmas sun will rise 
For me no more. Beyond those star-lit skies 
My spirit soon shall speed its rapid way. 
You'll send the gift to mother, and you'll say 
How well I loved her } Had my furlough come, 
Could I have spent this night with her at home, 
How many loving words I would have said. 
Ah, loving words withheld, die with the dead ! 

But you will tell her this — she'll guess the rest. 
Oh, — could — I — lean — my — head — upon — 

her — breast — 
I'd — die — content. Ah, — now — I — see — : 

light ! 
It — shines — for — me — it — marks — the - 

way, — good-night." 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 



THE MYSTERY OF SPANISH ROCK. 

Far, far away, 'neatfi skies of blue, 

Beyond the genial Gulf Stream's flow, 

Clad in a glory ever new, 

And fringed with coral reefs of snow, 

Bermuda's green hills rise to view, 

Mid crystal waves that deep below 

Hide growths of wondrous form and hue. 

Her heights with goodly cedars crowned, 
Stand dark against the azure skies, 
As wave-caressed she sits rock-bound. 
Above a hidden world that lies 
Submerged in amber depths ; for there 
Strange colonies in secret toil. 
And deftly build with patient care 
The snowy texture of the soil. 



46 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

I see, or seem to see, to-day, 
As once I saw in days of yore, 
The jeweled waves of Grassy Bay 
That flash along its smooth white shore. 
Again with thee, O far-off friend, 
Amid enchanted scenes I stroll, 
Where azure skies above us bend, 
And sapphire seas around us roll. 

How grateful is the memory 
Of those time-buried days of old. 
When from a rose-wreathed jalousie, 
We watched the tender buds unfold, 
As o'er the land and o'er the sea 
The sunshine fell in " fluid gold." 

Fairy-land ! In fancy's flight, 
The poet and the artist rise 

To realms of beauty, Eden-bright, 
Inspired 'neath thy deep-tinted skies. 
For thee the sweetest warblers sing, 
For thee the fairest flowers bloom. 
And mid thy groves on gorgeous wing 
Rare insects scent the rich perfume 
Of nectared plants whose tendrils cling 
Round stately palms that skyward loom. 

1 mind me of thy hedges crowned 
With oleander bloom ; thy thyme 
And scarlet heath that wide around 
Their fragrance shed and climb 

To barren rocks, storm-bent and browned. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 47 

All these and more before me rise 
In memory of that glad time 
When 'neath thine iridescent skies 
I shared thy glories in their prime. 

How gayly o'er the purple reefs 

Our cedar craft sped on its way, 

As light and noiseless as a leaf's 

Low rustle at the close of day ; 

Our oarsmen, bronzed as those bold chiefs 

Of whom they sang, in rounde-lay ! 

The sea was flecked with snowy sails, 
And soft delicious breezes fanned 
The rippling waves ; while balmy gales 
Brought spicy odors from the land. 

Each craft its pennons broad unfurled, 
Light "dingey," yacht, and carvel gay; 
While dimpling eddies played and purled 
Round shattered hulks that anchored lay 
Where drifting sea-weeds swayed and swirled. 
And stately steamships far away 
Gave token of that outer world 
Beyond the reefs where dashing spray 
By wind and. wave is tossed and whirled. 

White sea-gulls skimmed, in tireless flight, 
The glassy surface of the deep ; 
And flying fish as swift as light 
From out the sea would sudden leap. 
Then downward vanish out of sight. 



48 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

The Inner Reefs ! Name, ye who can, 
The wonders of that world below, 
Safe from the ruthless grasp of man. 
Hid 'neath the ocean's restless flow, 
Where waves the Gorgon's purple fan 
Mid coral roses white as snow. 

There angel fish in blue and gold 
FJit near the surface, watchful, shy, • 
While cautious sea-hares, fearless, bold, 
Sport in a cloud of crimson dye ; 
And sea-anemones unfold 
Like flowers beneath a summer sky ! 

Strange forms of sponge-life, slimy, brown, 
Mid branching sea-rods feebly sway 
Where clumsy gherkins, fathoms down. 
Creep lazily in quest of prey ; 
And sea-wreaths, torn from Neptune's crown, 
Float jeweled with the crystal spray. 

Sea-urchins ply their purple spines, 
Pearl-hued physalae buoyant float. 
The feather-star its tendril twines 
Around the jelly's toppling boat. 
And like a changing opal shines 
The dolphin's iridescent coat. 

Too soon that day the ebbing tide 
Its warning to our oarsmen gave ; 
In vain their haste we sought to chide, 
Their dripping oars along the wave 
With rapid strokes they ceaseless plied. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 49 

And as our swiftly flying craft 
Danced gayly in the freshening breeze, 
With wistful eyes we gazed abaft, 
And bade farewell to reef-set seas. 

How like the tale by Sagas told, 

How like the myths the Eddas teach, 

The scenes we marked when last we strolled 

Along the " South Shore's " sandy beach 

That shone a band of burnished gold ! 

To seaward lay an endless reach 

Of curling waves; while frowning, bold, 

To landward, rose the Spanish Rock ; 

And far above its rugged height 

Like mottled clouds there hung a flock 

Of graceful boatswains poised in flight. 

Mid flowering shrub and bearded sedge, 

White coral cottages were seen ; 

And browsing on a shelving ledge 

Some tethered goats stretched forth to glean 

The trailing crab-grass at its edge. 

We clambered up the wooded steep, 
Past calabash and spreading palm, — 
Below, the moaning, surging deep, 
Above, the sweet and restful calm 
Of azure skies. Our tangled way, 
As on we rose from height to height, 
Through beds of fragrant fennel Lay, 
And sweet alyssum, snowy white. 



50 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

At last we reached the Pirate's Cave, 
Camelo's cross, Camelo's name, 
Long washed by pelting storm and wave, 
Had vanished, like Camelo's fame ! 
And where the robbers of the sea 
Had buried once their lawless spoil. 
The shell-flower scattered lavishly 
Its blossoms o'er the sterile soil. 

Within the cave our torches gleamed 

With lurid glare. Stalactites hung 

From vaulted roofs, deep-carved and seamed ; 

And over all our brush-lights flung 

A glare so weird that much it seemed 

A fairy tale in legends sung. 

Then suddenly upon the ear 
Sweet strains of music faint and low, 
Came floating from afar. As near, 
Still nearer drew the sound a glow 
Of amber light flushed all the drear 
Deep-shadowed space and then a flow 
Of melody came sweet and clear, — 
A plaintive song of hidden woe. 



SONG. 

There are some thoughts we may not speak, 
Down deep they lie within the soul. 

As shadows 'neath the waters sleep, 
But never to the surface roll. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 51 

There are some thoughts we cannot speak, 
In vain we seek to call them forth, 

For strongest words are still so weak 
That language seems of little worth. 

There are some thoughts we dare not speak, 
Dark o'er the heart their shades are cast ; 

Some bitter mem'ries which we keep 
Sealed, sacred to the silent past. 

There are some thoughts which could we speak, 
What canker-spots would leave the brain ! 

A few brief words in whispers weak, 
Might bring life's sunshine back again. 

Nay, ask it not — the palsied tongue 

Refuses now to act its part ; 
Live on, a few more days agone, 

And palsied too shall be the heart. 

******** 

Charmed as by some weird, mystic spell, 

We stood in breathless wonder there. 

Was it the song of Ariel 

That floated on the cave-pent air? 

The dainty, tricksy Ariel, 

The cloven pine-imprisoned sprite. 

That couched within a "cowslip's bell," 

And on a bat's wing floated light ! 

Did Prospero with magic skill 
Still rouse the furies of the deep, 
And "'twixt the sea and sky," at will 
Bid tempests rise and fiercely sweep 



52 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

The hollow waves ? Did Caliban, 
The "freckled whelp" of Sycorax, 
His deeds of darkness subtly plan 
And all his powers of evil tax 
To wreak his wrath on helpless man ? 

Again arose a trembling strain, 
Half song, half plaint ; then broken, low, 
Came whispered sounds of soul-pent pain 
And smothered sighs and sobs of woe. 



SONG. 

Through daisy-starred meadows, 

'Mid sunbeams and shadows, 
A youth and a maid trip along ; 

While over and over 

The fresh, nodding clover, 
The flattering bee hums his song. 

With step light and airy, 

This blithe meadow fairy 
Speeds on with her knight true and strong; 

While over and over 

The deep, blushing clover, 
The light, fickle bee hums his song. 

With heart fondly beating, 

She smiles back his greeting, 
Ne'er dreaming of falsehood or wrong ; 

While over and over 

The sweet, fragrant clover, 
The sly, greedy bee hums his song. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 53 

Alone in the meadow, 

Like some ghostly shadow, 
A sad, tearful maid glides along ; 

While over and over 

The pale, drooping clover 
Now seldom the bee hums his song. 

Heart-weary with weeping. 

At last she lies sleeping. 
Unmindful of sorrow or wrong ; 

While over and over 

The dead, scentless clover 
No longer the bee hums his song. 
******** 

The wailing song was hushed. Again 
With gleaming torch we swiftly sped 
In eager quest. But all in vain ; 
Throughout the dismal space a dread 
And solemn silence seemed to reign. 

With eager steps we hurried on 
Past crystal lakes that tranquil lay 
Like mimic seas ; while dimly shone 
Our dying torch-light o'er the way. 
But fruitless was the search. No trace 
Of syren, sea-nymph, ghoul or sprite. 
Appeared within the haunted place 
To thrill the heart with sudden fright. 

"Ho ! Fair Miranda, where, oh where 
Art thou concealed .■' " we loudly cried. 
But Echo, daughter of the Air, 
In mocking tones alone replied. 



54 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

Then as we groping still pursued 

The mystic singer, we descried 

An open space where roughly hewed, 

Rude steps led to the world outside. 

And mounting up the coral stair 

That led into the outer world. 

We breathed once more the balmy air 

That swept the sea and softly curled 

Its shining waves, while here and there 

Danced graceful yachts with sails unfurled. 

From steep and crag, green lichens hung. 
And mottled all the barren ledge, 
And tastefully the life-plant flung 
Her drooping blossoms o'er its edge ; 
And golden star-flowers gleamed among 
The feathery fern and tufted sedge. 
Along the Rock's broad base we strayed 
Until we reached the seaward side. 
There, 'neath a Pride-of-India's shade. 
We sat and watched the creeping tide ; 
When lo, above the moaning sea. 
There rose again the liquid swell 
Of that wild, plaintive melody 
That echoed through each caverned cell. 

SONG. 

Thalatta ! Thalatta ! I love thee, O sea. 
And on thy white waves I am longing to be ; 
All hail to the spirit, wild, daring and free, 
That fears not thy billows, thou turbulent sea. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 55 

Thalatta ! Thalatta ! beneath thy cold wave, 
Lies hidden full many a mariner's grave ; 
Nor treasure, nor jewel, his strong arm could save, 
The sea-nymph hath borne them away to her cave. 

Thalatta! Thalatta! thy white, foamy crest 
No terror awakens within my torn breast ; 
What matter it if I but peacefully rest ? 
Ah, sad heart, be patient, thy God knoweth best. 

******** 

With knitted brows we eager peered 

Through hidden path and open glade; 

Distrustful that a scene so weird. 

By some sly conjurer was played. 

When lo, upon a beetling height 

That overhung the wave-washed beach, 

A woman's form in dazzling white, 

A moment stood and scanned the reach 

Of rolling surf ; then swift as light 

She downward leaped ! A splash — a screech 

Like some scared sea-bird in its flight. 

And 'mid the wild and foamy breach 

Of maddened waves she sank from sight. 



Ah, years may speed in noiseless flight. 
And dreams may oft my senses mock ; 
But ever vivid, ever bright, 
As memory shall her stores unlock, 
Will stand before my cloudless sight 
That Phantom of the Spanish Rock. 



56 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 



AT THE GRAVE OF ALBRECHT DURER. 

" Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies." 

Henry VV. Lo>i<^ fellow. 

Old Nuremberg! I stand before its towers and 

castles strong, 
And think of him who wove its scenes into his 



I see the Schone Brunnen's spray in pearly cloudlets 

rise, 
And note the quaint old gabled roof, high pointing 

to the skies. 

I mark its churches richly carved, its statues and 

its shrines, 
And stroll along the bridge-linked banks through 

which the Pegnitz winds : 
While crumbling towers and castled crags and 

wooded walks and ways 
Seem shrouded in the twilight mist of mediaeval 

days. 

Now past tiled roof, past oriel, past rough and 

rugged steep, 
Toward the churchyard of St. John, my onward 

course I keep. 
Unchallenged by Krafft's sentinels, stern, silent, 

cold, and still, 
That stand, the stately witnesses of genius, toil, 

and skill : 

And where the sumach's crimson fruit and painted 
leaves abound. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 57 

I mark the print of pilgrim feet that tread this 

hallowed ground. 
Here pausing, where the sunbeams fall upon an 

ancient stone, 
I read a name that Nuremberg hails proudly as her 

own ; 

A name that bears a royal sound to every loving 

heart, 
That Rome and Prague and Bruges boast in 

treasured gems of art. 
And " Emigravit," dimly carved below the name, I 

see. 
Of him who won the fadeless wreath of immortality. 

Ah, prince of artists, death to thee brought life's 

eternal dawn. 
Thy hand forgot its cunning near four hundred 

years agone ; 
And yet thou livest, triple-crowned by Fame's 

undying hand. 
The poet, painter, sculptor of thine honored father- 
land. 
Nuremberg, August 13, 1890. 



IN THE BINNENHOF. 

I stand within the Binnenhof, and think of that 

dread day 
When John of Barneveldt stood here, one early 

morn in May ; 



58 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

The white swans floated tranquilly upon the silver 
sheen 

Of crystal lakes, and beechen groves put on their 
newest green ; 

Sweet-throated warblers 'mong the trees were flit- 
ting here and there, 

While bursts of gushing melody rang out upon the 
air. 

I see the aged Advocate as bowed with grief he 

stands 
And leaning on his staff he clasps his thin and 

feeble hands. 
"O God," he cries, "for all my toil is this my 

hapless fate^ 
Is this the meed of forty years of service for the 

state ? " 

The sword is sharp, its edge is keen, but what is so 
imbued 

With an eternal, deathless sting as base ingrati- 
tude ? 

The friend of Orange, of the State, of Equity and 
Right, 

Must he be martyred to appease rank jealousy and 
spite ? 

He bows his head, "Be quick," he cries, — then 
falls the fatal sword, 

Thus perished John of Barneveldt — Knight, Advo- 
cate and Lord ; 

But when that headless trunk was raised and 
placed upon its bier 

Methinks that Justice blushed for shame and Mercy 
dropped a tear. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 59 
IMPROMPTU. 

(On seeing a cat resting on one of tiie exquisitely carved 
corbels in Melrose Abbey.) 

Most favored Felis, on thy stony bed 
Of rarest sculpture thou art free to lie ; 

p-ree, through these cloisters old, with stealthy 
tread 
To wend thy way, and none thy track will spy, 

To bore thine ear with oft-repeated tale 

Of " flowing tracery " or " chiseled Kale." 

I envy thee thy freedom, wily beast. 
The freedom of such solitude profound ; 

But well I know that veneration, least 
Of all thy graces, to this hallowed ground 

Hath ne'er enticed thee ; nay, thy greed hath said, 

" A living rat out-weighs a monarch dead." 

No line elegiac charms thy wary glance ; 

No clustered column of monastic skill 
Allures thine eye. With cautious look askance 

Through nave and transept thou dost roam at 
will ; 
Yon quaintly carved angelic choir of stone 
As moved as thou, sly fiend of flesh and bone ! 

Past decorative details, cap and pier, 
Thou glidest on, unmindful of the use 

Of that odd sentiment that drops a tear 

Above the stone that hides the heart of Bruce ; 

Nor wind-dirge from the distant Eildon hills. 

Nor moaning Tweed, thy savage nature thrills. 



6o IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

Soft waves of moonlight through the " oriel " creep, 
And fall upon the mystic Wizard's urn ; 

I hear a ghastly step, a sudden leap — 

And then with startled haste I trembling turn 

To see thee seize a hapless creature there 

And fiercely crush it for thine evening fare ! 

But why upbraid thee for thy cruel bent, 

Marauding brute, since men, with nobler sense, 

To bloody warfare all their valor lent 

To win, alas ! the grave's poor recompense ? 

So, prowling victor, still thy franchise keep 

To haunt the tombs where greater victors sleep. 

BETWEEN THE LAKES. 

Fair Interlachen ! What a rhythmic sound 
Flows through the name ! With lofty peaks snow- 
crowned, 
She sits between Brienz and Thun, a Queen. 
Her heights are ermine-tipped ; her valleys, green 
With velvet verdure ; and her hill-sides set 
With picturesque chalets. A fleecy net. 
Rose-tinted, in the Alpine sunset's glow, 
Half hides the Jung Frau's dazzling cap of snow, 
As, like a scene 'neath Titian's opal skies, 
Fair Interlachen in the twilight lies ! 

But fairer still at early flush of morn 
When rings the echo of the Alpine horn 
From peak to peak her beauties lie outspread. 
Bright in the sunlight gleams the silver thread 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 6i 

Of mountain streams that rush in swift cascades 
And flash mid jagged cliffs and forest glades 
To join the winding current of the Aar 
That in its emerald beauty shines afar. 

Go where the misty Staubach's torrent flows, 
Seek Lauterbrunnen's dreamy, calm repose ; 
Ascend the Schreckhorn's summit clad in snow 
That guards the glacial Grindenwald below ; 
Mark where the turbid Liitschine hissing leaps 
Its rocky barriers, or, silent, creeps 
Along the flowery vale at last to hide 
In Lake Brienz its troubled, restless tide ; 
But mid the glories of each wonderous^cene, 
Still Interlachen reigns the Alpine Queen ! 

NULLI SFXUNDUS. 

(In the National Gallery- — London.) 
Hear what Ruskin says of Turner : — 

Are men measured by men's praise } 
Then was he the sole discerner 

Of shy Nature's hidden ways. 

His deft hand alone could fashion 

Azure seas and skies of gold ; 
He alone possessed the passion 

That could clasp fair Nature's mold. 

He could paint the tree, the mountain, 

Rugged rock and wave-worn stone ; 
He could form the living fountain 
Subtle-hued and rare in tone. 



62 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

He could paint the plunge and tumble, 
Splashing foam and spring and leap 

Of the wild cascade. — The humble 
Rill could picture hidden deep 

Within the dell ; and the meadows 
Where the sunbeams coyly play 

In and out among the shadows, 
His swift pencil could portray. 

So, with Ruskin, we enchanted 

View the scenes by Turner wrought, 

While each flower his hand hath planted 
Wakes a deep and tender thought. 



A MYTH OF THE RHINE. 

High rises the Siebengebiroe, 
Dark-clad with the rich, purple vine. 
Its seven heads resting in cloud-land. 
Its foot dipping down to the Rhine. 

And here, where the Drachenfels' ruins 
Sit frowning and gloomy and cold, 
Bold Siegfried beheaded the Dragon 
That guarded its ill-gotten gold ; 

The gold that the gods, Loke and Odin, 
Had seized from the Dwarf of the Sea, 
And given in ransom to Hreidmar, 
That they from his bonds might be free. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 63 

Then, (trusting the Songs of the Eddas, 
That herald the Norse hero's fame,) 
Wild Fafner slew Hreidmar, his father, 
And then a sea-monster became ! 

A poison-tongued, venomous Dragon, 
The terror of gods and of men, 
That none but the Champion Siegfried 
Dared beard in his cavernous den. 

And down to this day there's a legend 
That oft in the moonlight there glides 
A monster with jaws wide-distended, 
Adown the steep Drachenfels' sides, 

To sport in the dark Rhenish waters ; 
And all (who have seen it) declare 
It must be the shade of the Dragon 
That Siegfried destroyed in its lair! 
Cologne, August 21, 1890. 



MUNICH. 

Now halt we here in Miinchen, ancient town, 
That like a wrinkled dame, in modern gown, 
Smooths out her ample folds, and, smiling down, 

Says " Now behold me ! " 
But like the town-aspiring country lout. 
Whose dearth of city breeding will crop out. 
So here, the Alt and Neu are linked with doubt, 

They've always told me. 



64 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

Here Klenze, Gartner and Cornelius wrought, 
Here Kaulbach, Schnorr and Rottman truly caught 
The spirit of the Master-Artist's thought — 

And mark how real 
Schwanthaler's Painters stand in proud array ! 
Thus wheresoe'er the tourist's feet may stray, 
Artistic handicraft adorns his way 

In grand ideal. 

Behold the Ruhmeshalle — Hall of Fame ! 
The Pinakothek — softly speak the name, 
For Burgher critics will your accent blame 

Howe'er you prize it. 
The Alte Residenz, the Konigsbau, 
The frescoed Kirche of Die liebe Frau — 
Oh, that some Teuton born would teach us how 

To gutturize it ! 

Ah, ye who sprechen Deutch, ye little reck 
The strain on lingua fraenum, held in check. 
When all the glories of the Glyptothek 

You view with wonder; 
And as you through the Ludwigskirche stroll 
And face the " Day of Judgment," how the soul 
In native gutt'ral growl can paint the roll 

Of frescoed thunder ! 

Here Beauharnais bestowed rich gifts of art, 
Aegina's Marbles, too, here form a part 
Of that vast, treasured wealth that thrills the heart 
Of Kerl and Kaiser ; 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 65 

And thus, the Present, Past, the Old and New 
Alike inspire the soul, and charm the view, 
As we, in wonder lost, our way pursue 
Along the Isar. 



THE ARMINIAN CHEST. 

Models of the " Old Arminian Chest," in which Hugo 
Grotius escaped, are shown at The Hague, and the legend is 
here understood and appreciated by all classes. 

Where the Yssel, the Waal, and the Meuse sea- 
ward flow. 

Now pellucid and fleet, now dark, turbid, and slow; 

Where the perfumes of orchards like incense arise. 

And the green hills of Gelderland point to the 
skies ; 

Here, securely intrenched by the triple-armed 
Rhine, 

Stands that frowning old fortress, the strong 
Loevenstein. 

Double-walled, double-fossed, iron-bolted, and 

barred, 
Where the dark, swelling waves keep their fierce, 

restless guard, 
See its turrets, its ramparts, its parapets stand. 
Overlooking the valleys of fair Gelderland. 
Thus it rises defiant, time-battered and bare. 
And who crosses its draw-bridge strikes hands with 

despair. 



66 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

With despair, did I say ? Nay, the grand human 

will 
And the deep love of freedom surmounts every ill; 
And the bars of the Loevenstein fortress are light 
When the soul of a Grotius seeks freedom and 

flight ! 

'Tis a morning in March, near three centuries gone, 
Wild the winds howl without, swift the tempest 

comes on. 
Hugo Grotius, thine hour of deliv'rance is near. 
Now bestir thee with haste, bid defiance to fear; 
For the skippers are waiting thy body to bear 
In its improvised cofifin to old Gorcum Fair! 

Ah, thy good wife was never so faithful as now ; 
What a smile vi^reathes her lips, what a joy crowns 

her brow. 
What a flutter 'twixt terror and hope fills her breast. 
As she locks thee within the Arminian chest ! 
Aye, she kisses the lock of thine improvised tomb. 
For should fortune forsake thee, then sealed is thy 

doom. 

'Tis a perilous voyage, where tempest and wave 

Are the sextons that hollow a billowy grave ; 

And the fury-lashed Waal rears a white foamy 
crest 

That now threats to engulf the Arminian chest. 

Pent up, smothered, and sea-tossed, oh, terror- 
struck soul, 

Be thou patient, the skippers are nearing their goal. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 67 

It is reached, thou art rescued, the arm of the 

Rhine 
Hath upborne thee and freed thee from stern 

Loevenstein ! 

Written at The Hague, August 22, 1889. 



THE JUDENSTRASSE. 

As we stroll along the "Jews' Quarters," I am reminded of 
poor Heine. Within this gloomy precinct, he, with his 
wretched Hebrew brethren, was compelled to be locked — 
like veritable criminals, on every Sabbath that he chanced to 
set foot in the ancient, imperial city. 

Within these squalid " Quarters of the Jews," 
As though he were a culprit, close confined, 
Young Heine, like an exile, wept and pined. 
Here he invoked his tearful, pensive Muse, 
And wove poetic garlands whose bright hues 
No hint betrayed of that defiant soul 
That spurned the bonds that held it in control. 
Ah, Christian zeal, whene'er thou dost abuse 
Thine high prerogative, till years on years 
Are fled, thy cruel wounds shall leave a scar! 
Sad Hebrew faces, channeled deep with tears, 
Long-waiting, watched for that slow-rising star 
That nov/ full-orbed, resplendently appears 
The herald of the day-dawn, seen afar. 

Frankfort-gn-the-Main, August 18, rSgo. 



68 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

THE GREATEST TRAGEDY. 

Along- the rugged mountain-side we wind 
Our way toward the clouds. At every turn 

New wonders greet us as we leave behind 
Ravine and gorge, wherein we faint discern 

Swift, foamy, white cascades that leap to find 
The vale below clad in green moss and fern. 

Our onward, upward course is marked by shrines 
That pious hands have set along the way ; 

And from the Kofel Crag there brightly shines 
A beacon light, — the sun's reflected ray ; 

While mingling with the clouds we mark the lines 
Of snow that rest above the summits gray. 

Past Ettal's Cloister rich in relics old, 

Past the unique, palatial chalet 
Of Marquis Bute, past cliff and crag and bold 

O'er-hanging precipice, we hold our way 
To where the fir-clad Tyrols close infold 

A little hamlet. Here, at close of day, 

Behold, (our up-ward, cloud-ward journey done) 
Fair Oberammergau's green vale displayed, 

Where we shall see before to-morrow's sun 
Hath set sad, fearful Tragedy portrayed, — 

The Crucifixion of the Sinless One, 

On whom the guilt of all the world was laid ! 

Meanwhile, as through the town we wend our way, 
The placid Ammer's current we descry, 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 69 

And pass some low-built cottages. Here, gay 
With cap, and sash, and plume, go strolling by 

The village peasants, as in groups they stray 
In happy leisure 'neath the twilight sky. 

No stately edifice with spacious halls. 

Is here to greet our splendor-loving eyes, 

Nor velvet tapestries, nor frescoed walls ; 
No lofty columns, richly sculptured, rise. 

But in the peasant's word of welcome falls 
A restful benediction from the skies. 

Perchance we lodge beneath the roof of one 
Who sits a Ruler in the Sacred Play ; 

A Herod, Pilate, Annas, or the son 
Of Simon may our footsteps stay 

And bid us welcome. All is kindly done 

As when a friend meets friend along life's way. 

Two hundred years and more have sped away 
Since here the Tyrol peasants earnest prayed 

That God the fearful pestilence would stay 

Which had their homes well nigh in ruins laid ; 

The plea was heard and from that faith-crowned day 
They've kept their pledge to hallow each decade. 

Hark ! On the Sabbath stillness breaks the sound 
Of early signal guns. O'er hill and plain 

The startling summons echoes far around ; 

And now there wends an eager, surging train, 

Wherein true pilgrims from all lands are found, 
To see the Son of Man betrayed and slain ! 



70 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

We gather here a vast expectant throng : 
On either side dark fir-clad hills arise : 

Below, the crystal Ammer winds along, 

And like a pictured scene the landscape lies ; 

And as we silent sit a burst of song 

Ascends in praise to Him who rules the skies. 

It is the opening prologue ; and behold 

The rich-robed Chorus pass upon the stage ! 

They cease, and then in tableau we are told 
The story of that strange, primeval age 

When through fair Eden trailed the serpent's fold, 
And wrought such woe as time can ne'er assuage. 

The Adoration of the Cross appears 

In tableau next ; and then upon the stage 

A throng of peasants rush with song and cheer 
And loud hosanna. Youth and hoary age. 

And lisping childhood shout till far and near 

Glad songs of praise their hearts and tongues 
engage. 

For see! The Christ, upon an ass's foal 
Led by His Loved Disciple, now doth ride 

Into Jerusalem. — The Prophet's scroll 

Hath plain fore-shown the scene. Close to his 
side 

Are pressed His chosen few. — Ah, kingly soul, 
Thy noble mien bespeaks Thy lofty Tribe ! 

With waving palms they hail Him, Prophet, King, 
As he alights and through the Temple strides ; 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 71 

He marks the money-changers, hears the ring 
Of filthy lucre, and indignant, chides 

The traders who unto the Temple bring 

Their wrangling traffic where God's peace abides. 

With lash in hand He drives them from the place, 
And spurns the Priests who glare with angry 
eyes 

In helpless wrath upon His holy face ; 

Then, as the doves, released, speed to the skies. 

So to the Great Sanhedrim, hurried pace 

The baffled Priests, while threats of vengeance 



The song and tableau now such scenes portray 
As those fore-casting the Messiah's fate ; 

As Jacob's sons, their brother, seek to slay, 
So while the fierce Sanhedrim sit in state. 

They plan the deed that crowns the Sacred Play; 
For blood alone can quench their vengeful hate. 

Again is sung in deftly woven verse 

The coming scene : and tableaux then disclose 
The prophecies that ancient scrolls rehearse. 

Tobias from his weeping mother goes, 
Fore-shadowing the ills of that deep curse 

Pronounced on Innocence by plotting foes. 

The parting hour at Bethany ! Ah years 
On years may roll but vivid still will rise 

That scene of woe. — Fast fall our blinding tears 
As that sad mother, bowed, with streaming eyes. 



72 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA, 

In anguish pleads her love, her grief, her fears, 
In tones that seem to reach the vaulted skies. 

Now Vashti kneels before her irate king, 
While Esther, proudly clad in robes of state 

Ascends the throne, graced with the royal ring. 
Thus fair Jerusalem's unhappy fate 

Is typified. — Now haste thee, Judas, bring 
Thy treason to an end, nor doubting, wait. 

But ere the Feast of Passover is spread, 

Lo, from the Promised Land, the faithful spies 

Return, through fertile fields divinely led, 
And bear rich clustered fruit of fabled size ; 

While Israel's wandering hosts are fed 
With snowy manna falling from the skies. 

As sits the master with His chosen band 
Of faithful followers, He humbly kneels 

To wash their feet ; and at His mild command 
They tearfully submit. Then from His hand 

The bread and wine they take while softly steals 
The sound of music from a seraph band. 

The Traders and Iscariot have met 

To bargain for the blood of Christ the Lord. 

He pleads his empty purse, the price is set, 
And quickly he receives his base reward ; 

Well pleased he hugs the prize with muttered 
threat, 
He who so lately shared His Master's board ! 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 73 

But 'mid the fierce Sanhedrim's loud debate, 
Two aged Rulers rise and plead the cause 
Of Him on Whom such deep and deadly hate 
Hathfallen. — "How hath he transgressed the 
laws ? " 
They ask. But naught can stay or change His 
fate, 
His death must be accomplished ere they pause. 

Both Choir and Tableau now the scenes fore-show 
Of sad Gethsemane. — False Joab's sin, 

And Adam bending 'neath his weight of woe, 
Prepare the tragedy. Wild breaks the din 

Of eager voices while above, below, 

Weird echoes answer from the rocks within. 

The Garden of Gethsemane ! Alone ! 

Ah, stricken heart, hast ever felt the woe 
Of utter loneliness ? Hast ever known 

A grief that none may share ? — Here, kneeling 
low, 
He cries aloud in soul-exalting tone, 

" If Thou hast willed it, Father be it so." 

The fatal hour has come. He is betrayed ; 

Iscariot his stealthy kiss bestows ; 
But see ! With patient grace and undismayed, 

He meets their spiteful thrusts and cruel blows; 
While His disciples, trembling, and afraid. 
Depart and leave Him to His ruthless foes. 

To Annas first they bring Him strongly bound, 
And then to Caiaphas before the day 



74 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

Hath dawned ; while in the darkness gather round 
The witnesses that swear His life away; 

And when pretense of judgment they have found, 
Before stern Pilate next their cause they lay. 

Meanwhile, remorseful Judas is fore-shown 
In tableau, painting Cain's despairing woe. 

And soon, with haggard mien, and frenzied tone, 
In deep repentance, he resolves to go 

And plead for Him who stands condemned alone. 
Well guarded by the stern, relentless foe. 

Remorse ! remorse ! Ah, how can words portray 
The agony that robs his soul of rest .? 

In vain he pleads, in vain he seeks to stay 

The awful sentence. — Tearing from his breast 

The blood-bought purse, he hurls it swift away, 
And rushes forth with frenzy's rage possessed. 

Behold another, who with craven fear 
His Lord and Master steadily denies ! 

But when the cock, the signal, loud and clear 
Hath given thrice, then bitterly he cries, 

"I have denied Thee, O my Master, dear," 
And pleads for pardon, with tear-blinded eyes. 

Sore troubled is the Roman Ruler now. 

That they the Nazarene to him should bring. 
He marks His stately mien, His noble brow. 
And questions, " Dost Thou call Thyself a King .? " 
With fearless eye the Master answers, "Thou 
Hast said it ; yet I seek in everything 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 



75 



To testify unto the truth." — Replies 

Proud Pilate, "What is truth?"— Then from 
his wife 
Conies Claudius and to his master flies 

With her swift message. "Spare this just man's 
life." 
W^ith glad assent he bids the Rabbies rise 
And speed to Herod with their lawless strife 

With tenfold wrath their victim they deride, 
And fell him to the earth with brutal blows. — 

Thus Samson mocked and fettered is descried 
In tableau ; while his terror-stricken foes 

Seek vainly from impending doom to hide, — 
A fitting symbol of the Drama's close ! 

Bound like a felon stands the Holy One, 
Before the royal Herod, doomed to die. 

The haughty monarch asks, "What hath He done > 
What evil hath He wrought.?" — They make 
reply, 

" He hath by magic all the people won, 

And claimeth to be crowned of God on High." 

But Herod in derision bids them place 
A robe of white upon Him in mock jest, 

And sends them back to Pilate with due grace 
And compliment that he will judge Him best ; 

With savage shout the mob their way retrace, 
While deepest hatred rules each fiendish breast. 

In tableau Joseph's blood-stained coat is brought 
And laid before old Jacob's tear-dimmed eyes ; 



'je IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

And in the thicket the mute lamb is caught 

For Abraham's devoted sacrifice : 
And now the rabble satisfied with naught 

But blood with shouts of vengeance rend the 
skies. 

But Pilate minds them of their Custom's claim 
To free a felon ere the Paschal day ; 

In quick response they fiercely shout the name 
Of vile Barabbas and without delay 

The wretch is brought with cheek untouched by 
shame 
To claim the homage which the rabble pay. 

With bitter spite the thorny crown they press 
Upon his bleeding brow ; within His hand 

The mimic sceptre place ; the purple dress 
Of royalty they bring and then confess 

In mocking tones, their King, and jeering stand 
And taunt Him with His human helplessness. 

Then Pilate yielding to their fierce demands. 
Proclaims at last, "The Nazarene must die." 

But calls aloud for water that his hands 

Before them he may cleanse. " The crimson dye 

Of guiltless blood be yours," he says and stands 
Himself condemned by purer Courts on High I 

Once more with vivid truth are typified 

The fearful scenes that mark the tragic close, 

As toiling slowly up Moriah's side. 

The patient Isaac with his burden goes ; 

While raised on high the gleaming, brazen hide 
Of Israel's serpent in the sunshine glows. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 77 

Toward Golgotha now, He journeys slow, 
Ben.eath His heavy cross, till on the way 

He fainting falls ; but with harsh threat and blow 
They urge Him on, for naught their haste can 
stay. 

As thirsting for His blood they eager go 
Toward the Hill of Death without delay. 

But as He staggers forward, faint and weak, 
In meek submission, and with patient mien, 

Upon the air there falls a piercing shriek ; 
Lo, Mary with the faithful Magdalene 

And John discover now Him whom they seek. 
And cry, " It is the Holy Nazarene ! " 

Then Simon takes the heavy cross and bears 
It for his Master while the women, near, 

Support the weeping mother. Thus each shares 
A two-fold burden. But no shrinking fear 

The sad, soul-speaking face of Jesus wears. 
As tenderly he whispers words of cheer. 

His hour is come ! Ah, how the mother pales 

With agony as loud the strokes resound 
That drive through feet and palms the cruel nails 
That hold Him to the cross. Then from the 
ground 
They raise Him 'tween the thieves. — All effort 
fails 
To paint the horrors that the scene surround ! 

Now as the Holy Records hath foretold. 

They part His raiment and the spoils divide ; 



78 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

And then His seamless vest they grudging hold. 
And casting lots with laugh and jest deride 

The Nazarene as they their trophies fold 
And lightly toss the rattling dice aside. 

Now sad and plaintive comes the felon's cry, 
" Remember me in pity, Lord, I pray." 

And Jesus, gazing on him, makes reply, 
" Behold in Paradise this very day 

Thou shalt with me abide." His foes draw nigh. 
And seek in scornful ire His speech to stay. 

Below the cross stands Mary; moans and sighs 
Break from her bursting heart. Then unto John, 

"Behold thy mother, son," He earnest cries, 
And unto Mary calls, "Behold thy son." 

And Mary, moved with grateful love, replies, 

" In death, Thou car'st for me, O Blessed One ! " 

"I thirst," He murmurs now in accents low, 
At this the bitter draught they bid him take ; 

He turns away and breathes a prayer of woe ; 
Then, "It is finished," cries, — The mountains 
quake. 

Deep thunder rolls, the skies with lightning glow, 
And rocks and hills as if with terror shake ! 

Anon, with lifted spear they pierce His side, 
And they who witness shudder as they see 

The gaping wound that pours its crimson tide. 
Then Pilate's messenger comes hurriedly 

With gracious leave that Joseph may provide 
Fit sepulture for Him of Galilee. 



IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 79 

Down from the cross with careful, loving hands 
They take their bleeding Lord and tenderly 

They wrap his mangled form with snowy bands 
Of finest linen. Gazing tearfully 

Meanwhile upon His face, each mourner stands. 
Then bear Him to His mother reverently. 

We see Him lifeless on His mother's breast, 
While at her feet is laid the thorny crown : 

We see Him borne to His rock-cave of rest ; 
We see the terror-stricken guard fall down. 

And see them haste with sudden fear possessed, 
The tidings to proclaim throughout the town. 

A final tableau crowns the Sacred Play. 

The Nazarene ascends in robes of white. 
While weeping friends in adoration pray. 

And gaze with up-turned eyes where seraphs 
bright 
Cloud-veiled descend and beckon Him av/ay. 

Thus fades the Risen Lord from mortal sight ! 

Awe-stricken, thoughtful, mute, we turn away ; 

With speechless rapture every voice is stilled. 
A doubting world renews its faith to-day. 

He Hves ! He lives ! the scripture is fulfilled. 
" Peace unto you," we hear the Master say. 
And every fainting heart with hope is thrilled. 

Forever on the Crystal Ammer flows. 

Forever on through flowery mead and dale ; 



8o IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 

Soft sunsets fade amid eternal snows, 

And rising sunbeams purple hill and vale ; 

And as time marks each rounded decade's close 
New voices shall take up the Wondrous Tale. 



POEMS WRITTEN 

FOR OCCASIONS. 



THE YEARS. 

(Written on the Tenth Alumni Anniversary, for the class 
of '78, Academic Department, Gloversville Union School.) 

'Tis an old-fashioned theme that from earliest time 
Has been rhymed into measure, and measured in 

rhyme, 
Has been sung by our poets in deep, thrilling 

strains, 
And has shaken orations from orator's brains. 

In the drama of Life on the world's busy stage, 
Where seven brief acts mark the length of an age, 
In all scenes, in all acts of this popular play 
Hasty exits and entrees go on, day by day; 

But like all well-planned dramas, not one has a 

voice 
His entree or his exit to hasten by choice ; — 
First, the pink, mewling infant most pitiably frail. 
Then the dull, whining school-boy, who creeps like 

a snail 

With his book-strap or satchel to meet the stern 

face 
Of a sage who knows well how to quicken his pace ; 
Then the lover whose breast is a furnace of flame, 
And who sighs at the sound of Dulcinea's name ; 



84 POEMS WRITTEN 

Next the glory-crowned soldier with knap-sack and 

sword ; 
Then the Constable Dogberry, proud as a lord ; 
Now a Lear, robbed of majesty, slippered and lean, 
With a thin treble voice and a wild, haggard mien ; 

And last, he who out-beggars the imbecile king, 
" Sans teeth, taste, and eyes, yea, sans everything." 
But no matter how tasteless, how irksome his art, 
From beginning to end each must carry his part. 

One far wiser than I hath affirmed that the wealth 
Of a man or a woman consists not in health ; 
Consists not in portion, in station nor power. 
But that poverty comes with the loss of each hour ; 

And that he is the Croesus who stands in his prime, 
While no soul is so poor as the bankrupt in time 
As he sadly, like Ossian, cries out through his 

tears, 
"Whence comes it, where goes it, this swift stream 

of years ? " 

You behold in her carriage, my lady of state, 
Her coachman, her footman, obsequiously wait. 
Each alert to obey the least hint of command, 
For she governs her realm with a wave of her hand. 

But that hand, diamond flashing, is shriveled and 

thin. 
With its knuckles bulged out and its muscles 

caved in. 
And you spy, 'neath her trappings of jewels and 

gold. 
That in spite of all gilding, the woman is old. 



FOR OCCASIONS. 85 

And that pompous old banker with gold-headed 
cane, 

Is regarded with awe by a scrub in the lane 

Who presides o'er a bank, shoveled out of moist 
clay. 

But he would not exchange with that banker to- 
day. 

He has muscle and sinew, he stands in his prime. 
And his debits are small in the bank-book of time; 
He has hopes which no ghost of the past may dis- 
arm. 
For the glamour of youth sheds a magical charm ! — 

Was old Ponce de Leon vain, dapper and bold, 
The only gallant who to dodge growing old, 
Breasted billows and breakers, all danger, in truth, 
To discover a spring of perennial youth ? 

Honest friends, there are thousands, at this very 

day. 
Who are seeking this spring, — by a different way. 
But they're seeking a myth, in a region unknown, 
Bubbling up very near the "philosopher's stone." 

When the grinders grow sparse, and the eyes 

dimly squint. 
When each facial contour bears the strong fossil 

print 
Of a crow's spreading foot, and the deep furrowed 

brow 
Hints that youth's brightest blossoms are under 

the plough ; 



86 POEMS WRITTEN 

When a few straggling locks on the shining bald 

head 
Are arranged like a pall o'er the face of the dead ; 
When both muscle and sinew dry down to the 

bone, 
And one stands like a mullein-stalk, shivering 

alone ; 

Then what mystical fountain, what marvelous 

jDOwer 
Can bring back vitality's God-given dower ? 
Or what powder, pomatum, what foul drug of sin 
Make the blush from without shame the blush 

from within ? 

Oh, fair queen of all hearts, when the magical 

spell 
Of your beauty is lost, try to say "It is well." 
You may hug that deep secret, — the date of your 

birth, 
But chronologists flourish all over the earth ; 

And they'll point to the records, they'll order a 

search 
Of your family Bible, your christ'ning at church, 
And they'll prove past denial, by honest zeal fired, 
That your juvenile lease has already expired. 

You may mourn your gray hairs, those white guests 

of the years, 
But they'll come though you greet them with fast 

falling tears. 



FOR OCCASIONS. %7 

You may dote on the foretop your fancy has 

nursed, 
But some sharp eye will ken that your switch was 

born first ; 

Turn your back to the mirror, your face to the 
wall, 

And the head of the Ostrich is hidden, that's all ; 

For like that dainty fern that we gather with care, 

There is naught that out-rivals the real Maiden- 
Hair!— 

And ye lords of creation, don't tell it aloud, 

But there's many a Turveydrop, ancient and proud, 

Who has fought with rheumatics and wrestled with 

gout, 
Who has built himself in and has built himself out ; 

While the grey spears that mottle his brindled 

mustache 
He has tweezered and twitched in a manner so 

rash, 
That his mal-treated lip, imperceptibly fringed. 
Looks much like a picked fowl just about to be 

singed. 

His white porcelain smile, edged with pink vulcan- 
ite, 

Would suggest a condition of chronic delight ; 

But you smile through a tear at his light, frothy 
glee. 

And his feeble attempts at a sharp repartee ; 



88 POEMS WRITTEN 

And the faded coquette who encounters his leer. 
Whispers low to her fan, " Oh, but isn't he queer ? " 
For, in spite of his mirth and his frolicsome airs. 
It is plain to perceive that he's mostly repairs. 

When the fair apple-blossoms, pink-petaled and 

sweet, 
Fill the air with their fragrance, then fall at our 

feet. 
We rejoice in the fruitage, ripe, golden, and rare, 
Nor bewail the lost blossoms that scented the air. 

Then why this repining, this wail of despair, 
This affright at beholding the ghost of a hair, 
This strange terror of wrinkles, this fear lest 

some tongue 
Spread the awful report that you're no longer 

young ? 

Has the past been so vacant, so wasted the years. 
That no rainbow of Hope shimmers up through 

your tears ? 
Have you sought only vanity under the sun. 
Is the wide world no better for what you have 

done ? 

To the out-cast, the fallen that crept to your door. 
Have you said, with the Master, " Peace, sin thou 

no more " ? 
To the famished, the starving that roam o'er the 

land. 
Have you tendered the pittance they begged at 

your hand ? 



FOR OCCASIONS. 89 

Have you knelt with no mourner to weep o'er a 

bed 
On which liHes and hare-bells their soft petals 

shed ? 
On that dark, lonely, path that no sunbeam adorns 
Have you scattered no roses, uprooted no thorns ? 

Over wastes of rough stubble and deserts of sand, 

Have you lightened no heart, have you strength- 
ened no hand? 

These are acts in Life's drama that challenge true 
art. 

And he well may lament who has failed in his part. 

Then rejoice, O young hearts, in the days of your 

youth. 
But subvert not their freshness, their promise, and 

truth 
By broad-casting "wild-oats" where you should 

scatter seeds 
That develop high aims, noble thoughts, honest 

deeds ; 

Else, perchance in the future, a conscience-lit flame 
May illumine, too strongly, some past deed of 

shame ; 
Or a sense of abasement your proud bosom fret 
As you writhe in the pangs of a lasting regret. 

You have youth, you have hope, you have vigor 

and health, 
Oh, scorn not, oh, waste not this fullness of wealth ; 
Let the fleet-footed years as they swiftly depart 
Find you broadened in soul and unsullied in heart. 



90 POEMS WRITTEN 

But the drama goes on and behold here to-day 
A gay, amateur troupe who have made their entree 
And their exit as well, and we loudly encore 
As the curtain is dropped and the closing scene, 
o'er ; 

But their brief interlude will be followed, I ween. 
By a classic rehearsal for some grander scene ; 
And new glories they'll garner at each ripened age. 
As new homage they win on the throne of the 
stage ; 

For all "artists-in-born" seek the plaudits of fame 

As a spur to a nobler, a still higher aim. — 

And this thought leads me back to the primitive 

age 
Of your drama scholastic when flashed on the 

stage 

A star-troupe of young actors, unrivalled in art, 
True and earnest in soul, pure and loyal in heart. 
Thus they stood, laurel-crowned, just a decade 

ago,— 
Have you heard the old adage that every crow 

Thinks her own young the whitest .'' Be that as it 

may. 
You will seek for a whiter brood, many a day ! — 
Here T sigh o'er my theme, and I pause in my 

rhyme. 
For a Decade of Years, ten lost children of Time 



FOR OCCASIONS. 



91 



Stand before me to-night and my pulses beat fast 
As they hft, each in turn, the light veil of the past ; 
And, though tear-mists of Memory shadow and 



mar 



The vista that smiles in the distance afar, 

Yet, with crude, rapid touch, without finish or hue 
I would fain paint the scenes that arise to my 

view ; — 
There's a green, sloping hill with its pathways 

well-trod, 
And some tall, spreading trees that cast over the 

sod 

Their fine profiles in shadow with here and there, 
too, 

A bright net-work of gold where the sunbeams 
glint through. 

At the top of this summit and crowning its head 

Stands your old Alma Mater with both arms out- 
spread, 

Suggestive of welcome, suggestive of flight 

To the top of ambition's most classical height. — 

There are long flights of stairs, old and dusty and 

worn. 
There are low, narrow halls with some splinters 

up-torn 

By the swift rush of feet as they fall into line 
In the order of grade. And this picture of mine 
Has a still higher flight very far to the eye, 
But more restful for being so near to the sky ; 



92 POEMS WRITTEN 

And its windows look out over valleys and dells, 
While afar in the distance, their low evening bells 
Call to service or prayer at the close of the day, 
When soft twilight descends on the hills far 
away, — 

On those time-honored hills, with green banners 

unfurled. 
That stand proudly to-day, the first-born of the 

world ! * 
Such, the half-drawn perspective, — but who can 

impart 
By a touch of the pen what is graved on the heart ? 

Ah, how often on Fancy's swift pinions I fly 
To your old Alma Mater's third loft in the sky ; 
To that peaceful retreat by sweet Solitude blest 
That from turmoil and care gave me refuge and 
rest. 

Alone, but not lonely, with friends true and tried. 

And my life-work before me, what craved I, be- 
side ? 

And there crowns the remembrance of happy years 
flown 

The sweet thought of another life linked with my 
own ; 

And once more rings the sound in the garret o'er- 

head 
Of a hammer and saw and a boy's nimble tread. 

* The Adirondacks. 



FOR OCCASIONS. 93 

There with close-knitted brow he toils on with a 

will 
To develop some feat of mechanical skill, 

Till at length the young ship-wright exhibits a 

craft 
That the favoring gales of his future shall waft 
Over waters unknown. And it comes, the glad day 
When both master and vessel speed gayly away, — 

Speed too gayly away, over waters unknown, 
And are lost to a life doubly saddened and lone. 
As the long days of absence, recorded with tears. 
Waste to months and the months wear to long, 
dreary years. 

But we meet here to-night not in sorrow nor 
gloom. 

As we bring our heart's offerings and strew o'er 
the tomb 

Of a Decade of Years wreaths and garlands of 
flowers 

That true Friendship and Love pluck from Mem- 
ory's bowers ; 

And though hearts have been saddened and cheeks 

have been wet. 
We will waste not one thought in a useless regret ; 
For with faith in the hand that blends wisdom 

with woe. 
Still the decades may come and the decades may 

go; 



94 POEMS WRITTEN 

But the fast-rolling years as they come and depart 
Shall not find us nor leave us less fervent in heart ; 
And our life-lease, though short, we'll not crave to 

extend, 
" For that life is the longest which answers life's 

end." 



TO MRS. W. ON HF:R WEDDING DAY. 

(With a dozen spools of cotton.) 

May your smooth thread of life be of generous 

length, 
And perfect in texture and number and strength ; 
And now that 'tis twisted with one of a kind 
That every way pleases your heart and your mind, 
You will wind up your bobbin with willing assent. 
And just run life's machine with a double intent. 



LINES WRITTEN FOR A WEDDING 
ANNIVERSARY. 

Dear friends, we have come on this glad New 

Year day, 
With gifts and with wishes our homage to pay. 
And to hear what the bride and the groom have 

to say 
In favor of courtship and marriage; 



FOR OCCASIONS. 95 

A fourth of a century surely must prove 
The truth or the falsehood of conjugal love, 
Though matches on earth that are sanctioned 
above 
No falsehood can ever disparage. 

" Some trials of course, we have met with " you 

say. 
Yes, sunshine and shadow twin-children of Day 
Their net-work of changes have wrought o'er your 
way ; 

Though one little sunbeam was given 
To comfort your hearts and to gladden your eyes, — 
The gift of your Father, who bids you be wise. 
And keep it unsullied and pure for the skies, 

For the skies that we mortals call Heaven. 

Your features will fade and your eyes will grow 

dim, 
And thin locks of gray nestle under your brim, 
But your hearts will grow young as you look upon 
him 

And you'll say it must be an illusion ; 
But no. Father Time ever sprinkles a thread 
Mid the locks of the fairest and loveliest head. 
And so whether married or single, or dead. 

We are subject to just such intrusion ! 

With health and with wealth may your future be 

crowned. 
May peace and prosperity ever abound, 
All "family jars " full of sweetmeats be found, 
And wedlock, a true golden fetter 



96 POEMS WRITTEN 

That shines with the wearing, — a mystical chain, 
Whose wonderful links a strange magic retain 
That brightens each pleasure and softens each 
pain, 
Old Hymen could wish you no better ! 



FIGURE-HEADS. 

(For a Reunion at the State Normal College, 
Albany, N. Y., Dec. 29, 1885.) 

When politicans swell their noisy throats 
With long orations born of borrowed notes, 
Or advocate some unimportant cause, 
To show their knowledge, or to win applause, 
May not a school-dame sing in humble strain 
The scattered thoughts that flit athwart her brain ? 
May she not show how spite of care and toil 
Huge shams may flourish in a fertile soil } 

Then come my Muse, and mid unnumbered strains, 
Raise one brief note before the chorus wanes : 
Come now, while rhymers meet, and metres rhyme 
To chant the progress of the present time. 
And tune thy lyre, by fairy Fancy led. 
To sing the progress of the Figure-Head. 

An odd vagary led me to my theme ; 
One night I had a most impressive dream ; 
Methought that in a crowded mass, I met 
A host of forms, and on each form was set 



FOR OCCASIONS. 



97 



A score of heads, of every style and size, 
And on each forehead, just above the eyes. 
Hung a placard, inscribed with this queer sign : 
" I'll scratch your head, my friend, if you'll scratch 
mine ! " 

All shams and shoddies, all pretence and fraud. 
These nodding heads virere fashioned to applaud ; 
All cliquish " Rings," intrigues, and cunning wiles 
Found recognition in their furtive smiles ; 
All public sinecures, professions, trades, 
First-class positions of all ranks and grades, — 
Whatever wealth bestows, or influence sheds, 
Was represented by these itching heads. 
Of capillary growth there was no lack 
Except one thin, bald place upon the back. 
Where constant scratching had laid bare the bone, 
Just as erosion wears away a stone. 
Each face with self-complacency grew sleek, — 
And oh, what wondrous, fearful breadth of cheek ! 
'J'hen round I cast my eager, questioning eyes, 
Saw other heads half timidly arise 
Without placards upon the foreheads high ; 
But brightly shone within each soul-lit eye 
The fire of genius, in whose borruzved ^\\QQ.xi 
These well-scratched heads were basking, calm, 

serene. 
I woke, and shaking off the drowsy spell 
That bound my senses, I remembered well 
That what in Dream-land had been shown to me 
Was but a type of what I daily see. 



98 POEMS WRITTEN 

O flitting Figure-Heads that rise to power 
In mushroom growths that thrive one little hour ! 
O Figure-Heads that rule through long decades 
By constant scratchings (those most potent aids)! 
Come forth to roll-call, answer to your names, 
And tell the truth, though it your master shames. 
Come forth distorted heads of mammoth size, 
With vulture-beaks and fiery Argus-eyes 
That flash like lightning in a pelting storm. 
Ye are the giant heads of bold Reform. — 
O stern Reform, thou moral Hercules, 
Canst thou bring Evil down on bended knees ? 
Twelve times twelve labors hath thy might as- 
sailed, 
Yet Evil stands well-backed, well-armed, well 
mailed. 

Political reforms with zeal advance, 
And nimbly lead thei"r partners in the dance 
Of Civil-Service Quickstep, while the Press 
Records their pirouettes and styles of dress. 
Some Terpsichorean who trips and falls 
Becomes a gastropod, and creeps and crawls 
In slimy suppliance upon the ground, 
Where'er the Quickstep dance goes round and 
round. 

Anon, the dance is changed for target drill, 
Which yields the test of every marksman's skill ; 
And target-practice soon becomes so brisk 
That every Figure-Head sustains some risk ; 



FOR OCCASIONS. 99 

While Census-bill projectiles framed with skill 
Just miss the mark, and lodge fast in a Hill ! * 

Reluctant Muse, I free thee from a task 
That would a hideous monster all unmask ; 
That would a tale unfold of this ripe age 
Which Tragedy ne'er played on mimic stage ; 
A tale of frauds and lucre-loving lust, 
Of infidelity to public trust, 
Of petty pilferers who reimburse 
Official tramps from out the public purse. 
Of bartered honor and of bribes and blame 
That makes the cheek of Justice blaze for 
shame. 

With careful tread, with secret, solemn awe, 
Lest I o'er-step the bounds of nature's law, 
I rise sublimely to those frigid heights 
That even touch the base of Woman's Rights, 
And sing Reform, — reform that breaks her chain 
And frees her from the thraldom and the pain 
That bondage brings to those unquiet minds 
Who feel the fetter, softly though it binds. 

One marvels much that woman, born to cheer 
And bless the world, should seek a broader sphere ; 
That from her quiet hearth-stone she should turn 
Her timid, longing eyes, and sighing, yearn 
For rights which man dares hardly hold in trust ; 
Man, high in purpose, in decision just, 

* In allusion to Gov. David B. Hill's veto of the Census 
Dill for the State of New York in 1SS5. 



100 POEMS WRITTEN 

Man, born of Nature's most sublime ideal, 

On whom "the gods have seemed to set their 

seal," 
Whose lofty souls would scorn to flout her claim 
To hard-earned stipend or to well-earned fame. 

What seeks she then in Legislative Halls 
Where she must brave the thrusts of party brawls. 
And rude contempt, and Libel's shifts and shocks, 
And all the slime that soils the ballot-box? 
Why sees she not within the small domain 
Of household circle all her duty plain ? 
Why to some desperate impulse does she yield 
To cultivate the broad and barren field. 
Although perchance the garden of her home 
Spring up with weeds, and coiling serpents come 
And breathe on her fair flowers a blighting breath 
That marks their trail with dire disease and death ? 
Does morbid sense of wrong or fancied right 
Thus drive her headlong on her tangent flight ? 
Let woman solve a query if she can 
That puzzles e'en the subtle brain of man. 

O Mistress Jellyby, sublime ideal, 
Suspend your efforts, check your ardent zeal. 
For " Borrioboola-Gha " there is no hope, 
That scene of action is beyond jc?/r scope. 
To man, primeval schemer, leave that field. 
And see what grand results it soon will yield. 
Let him direct you while you tug and toil ; 
He'll give you leave to till the rugged soil, 



FOR OCCASIONS. loi 

To prune and nurture with a constant care, — 
He'll not assert his claim the toil to share; 
But with an air that marks his conscious right 
He'll give you leave to work zvith all your might f 
He'll give you leave to wear out heart and brain, 
Then dole you out a pittance of Ins gain ; 
He'll give you leave all irksome tasks to do, 
Then claim the profit and the honors too ! 
He'll show you, by a logic most complete 
That your true sphere is at his lordship's feet. 
No matter though Minerva sponsor stood 
When you assumed the trust of womanhood 
A brazen Figure-Head thai trust disdains 
Where " might makes right " and gender out-ranks 
brains. 

Come forth, O Figure-Heads of social styles, 

That nod approvingly as Fortune smiles ; 

That all financial ranks intently scan, 

And with financial scales weigh every man. — 

Alas ! does wealth or station, pride of birth. 

Does power or polish stand for solid worth > 

Nay, nay, a strong, true heart full oft beats high 

Beneath a garb despised by social eye ; 

And giant brains throb 'neath a brim! ess hat, 

Ah, faith, " a man's a man for a' o' that." 

O Style and Fashion, Folly's twin-born apes. 
Before whose shrine the world her model shapes, 
Stern rulers, that our thoughts and lives control. 
Ye starve the heart, and dwarf the very soul.— 



I02 POEMS WRITTEN 

See fair Devotion in her Sunday smile 
Self-conscious, trip along the crowded aisle ; 
In Fashion's latest quirk is she arrayed, 
Style is her watchword, style her stock in trade. 
She eats, she sleeps, she walks, she talks in style, 
A stylish giggle rounds her stylish smile ; 
Her stylish calls are always in exchange. 
Like hostile guns saluting at long range ; 
She toils not, spins not, does not read nor think, 
But oh, how she adores the roller-rink ! 
Though oft at church for vanity harangued. 
Her foretop, like her doors, is loudly banged. — 
With waist so cramped within her corset's clasp 
That every breath is but a painful gasp. 
With bangles jingling like a convict's chains 
She fans and flutters till her pew she gains. 
Ducks down her head, as Custom bids her do, 
And — soothes the corn that's sprouting in her 
shoe ! 

Anon, a suitor comes to seek her hand : 
Has he position, bank-accounts, and land ? 
If not, oh luckless wight, how swift his fall, 
Some blear-eyed, blinking Croesus has them all ; . 
And for his wealth, which is her only goal, 
She sells herself, her body and her soul ; 
A golden Figure-Head, with golden crown 
Of scattered hairs as white as thistle down, 
Supplies the rank for which she longing sighs, 
Adores her beauty and ignores her lies. 
Thus any race, Decrepitude may gain 
If he but amble with a golden cane. 



FOR OCCASIONS. 103 

In freaks of Fashion most grotesque, most queer, 
One dainty object claims our notice here ; 
In haunts where no rude country swain intrudes, 
Behold the promenade of city dudes ! 
With beardless cheek, and downy upper lip ; 
With limbs as sleek as molded tallow dip ; 
With gloves immaculate, with slender cane 
That ne'er was soiled in dust of country lane 
With souls no larger than a cricket's crop, 
These pigmy counterparts of Hotspur's fop 
Sport cigarettes, and strut with lofty mien, — 
Tobacco plants, fresh, fragrant, young and green. 

Lo, Science, Mistress of the boldest brain. 
Shall proud Pretence be found upon her train ? 
Alas ! our roll-call must all dolts betray ; 
For quack professionals o'er-crowd our way 
And prate of Law, Theology, and Health ; 
Their empty titles being all their wealth. 
Yea, quack-professionals of every class 
From rank to rank with rapid progress pass, 
And shielded by a titled Figure-Head, 
Venture to rush " where angels fear to tread." 

Mad Medicasters here must find a place, 
Who laugh at Science in her very face ; 
They store their brains with sundry healing facts, 
And store themselves with patent pills and packs. 
And boast of skill which works such grand results 
That e'en the dead arise with quickened pulse ; 
Then diagnose in such a swelling strain 
That Terminology could scarce explain ; 



104 POEMS WRITTEN 

Expound pathology in learned tone, 
And deal a doubtful grain to every groan. 

Not less in Sciolism's well-thronged mart 

Poor Pettifoggers act their petty part ; 

Financial vultures hover everywhere, 

And seek to seize the greedy vulture's share 

By long delay and weary, vain dispute, — 

The Vholes, and Guppies, of the Jarndyce suit. 

Fierce legal vampyres, that their victims drain 

By sapping every artery and vein, 

Urged by the jingle of expected fees, 

Show clients how they'll win their case with ease; 

But summing up their items of defense, 

More often show their lack of common sense. 

Theologasters fill the sacred desk 

Who rival Comedy in grave burlesque ; 

With measured tone, and upward glance sublime, 

These pious Damons of Macauley's rhyme 

Inspire their hearers with a sleepy awe 

As they expound the claims of Moral Law ; 

Then Milton, Luther, Watts, or Wesley, quote. 

And fill each gap with — a selected note. 

Have they to foreign lands e'er made a tour ? 

That jaunt is shared alike with rich and poor ; 

Henceforth their feeble minds are tossed and 

vexed. 
How best to introduce it in the text ; 
And every benediction, sermon, prayer, 
Is spiced with odors of a foreign air, 
While sleepy hearers nod, and doze, and snore. 
And dream they've wakened on a foreign shore. 



FOR OCCASIONS. 105 

And while to sacred themes our thoughts we raise 

Comes forth a Figure-Head that blinds the gaze ; 

With saintly visage and with austere grace ; 

With cautious tread and slow, funereal pace ; 

With mock humility, and modest mien. 

That hides itself where best it can be seen ! 

Behold Piosity, fanatic elf. 

Who sees no good except her righteous self. 

The cloak which Charity with her endowed 

Is laid aside, as one reserves a shroud 

For that cold day which Nature brings to all, 

When life's thermometer takes its last fall. 

In scripture lore she is the only sage, 

She follows one straight road, the Narrow Gauge. 

With venomed tongue and Sanctimony's slime. 

She stings and hisses at a hint of crime ; 

But crumbs of scandal are sweet morsels, while 

She smites her breast in true Pecksniffian style. 

She prowls and peers with hungry, furtive glance, 

Some monstrous sin to spy, and if perchance 

She finds a frailty or a cause for blame. 

She lifts her holy hands and cries " For shame ! " 

Then boasts in a sepulchral mongrel tone, 

(A cross between a chuckle and a groan,) 

That she has passed Temptation's direst snare. 

Yet her fair soul is pure as Heaven's own air. 

Thus self-exalted does she loud bemoan 

The sinfulness that leaves her all alone. 

Till Virtue cries in bitterness and wrath, 

" Oh, what a goodly outside P^alsehood hath ! " 



io6 POEMS WRITTEN 

Perhaps some critic, noting each new case, 
Thinks poetasters here might find a place. 
Yes, grant them all that to their rank belongs, 
Grant all but a rehearsal of their songs ! 
Upspringing all about us, rhymesters rise 
With hearts brimful, but heads, not over wise, 
Whose vain conceits their sense so far abuse, 
That soon they make their visionary muse 
To rival Orpheus, whose magic lyre 
Could thrill the dead with its poetic fire ; 
And Sappho, that fair, gifted, Grecian maid, 
Is cast by them completely in the shade ; 
And one poetic wag boasts in his lays 
That "fools will write, while greater fools will 
praise." 

K^ prince of shams, we here may aptly quote 
The scribbing novelists of Beadle note, 
Whose startling titles fix the eager glance 
Of hungry readers starving for romance. 
Their pages drip with sympathetic tears. 
As sinking hope is swallowed up in fears 
Lest some bold hero perish in the strife. 
In which he wages all to win a wife. 

With slow, reluctant, hesitating tread 
Do I approach that shapeless Figure-Head, 
With brain as heavy as a London fog, 
And rightly labelled Pseudo-Pedagogue. 

The little Devil at his printer's case. 
With busy hand and mildly vacant face, 



FOR OCCASIONS. 107 

Sets up his stick, well spaced in pica row, 
But knows not what he sets, nor cares to know. 
He " follows copy," and has never known 
A higher impulse ; does he stand alone ? 
Nay, not alone, — behold the long parade 
Of mimic tutors in each rank and grade, 
Who shame pretense to science and to art, 
Like some rude actor who mistakes his part. 

Not air scholastic and not learned fact. 

Can fill the place of inborn, native tact. 

'Tis magnetism's subtle, strange control 

That binds the heart and captivates the soul. 

Slow imitators carry out designs 

Enclosed by certain circles, squares or lines ; 

Nor do they hasten their dull, plodding pace 

To seize a prize awarded in the race. 

With second-hand attainments on they grope, 

Nor seek a broader field nor freer scope ; 

Blind bats and moles that neither feel nor think, 

The mongrel apes of Darwin's missing link, 

Low protozoans, with a one-celled wall. 

Acephalous, and fossilized withal ! 

O, servile teacher, cast your books aside. 

And Nature's grand old volume open wide. 

Its pleasing truths each lisping tongue should 

learn. 
Its pictured page should charm at every turn. 
In one glad concert they should shout with glee 
That flowery alphabet, the ABC. 



io8 POEMS WRITTEN 

Of bud and blossom, springing all about, 
And let them thumb the page, it can't wear out. 
How soon each lesson they'll delight to read. 
Line after line they'll con with eager speed ; 
Strange stories learn ; with morals pure and good. 
That add a flavor to their mental food. 

Frail jewels, wrought of sunbeams, frosts, and 

dews 
Will charm their eyes with all the lustrous hues 
Of richer gems, so coveted, so dear, 
That bring their owners naught but fret and fear. 
And where the daisy shades her modest face 
With bordered cap of plaited, homespun lace, 
They'll love to linger ; eagerly they'll ask 
A thousand questions on their pleasing task : 
As, why the mole throws up the mimic mound 
That hides his gloomy castle underground ; 
How master Robin's stylish, scarlet vest 
Is cut to fit his portly, glossy breast ; 
How Daffodil her scented kerchief flirts ; 
Why butterflies have gold-embroidered skirts ; 
While clumsy toads wear on their ugly backs 
A rusty coat, all seamed and scarred with cracks. 
What hidden wealth lies in the rocky ledge ; 
Where gets the wind its keenly cutting edge ; 
Where plods the peddler snail on slimy track, 
With all his " notions " heaped upon his back. 

Why men at Beauty's shrine, their worship give ; 
Why homely, unloved things should care to live ; 



FOR OCCASIONS. 109 

Why roses crown the vulgar, way-side bush ; 
What means the music of the mottled thrush ; 
Whence come the silver-sandaled rills that glide 
Between their velvet banks on either side ; 
How stealthy spiders weave their subtle lace ; 
What holds the starry canopy in place ; 
Where the pale moon-man in the day-time goes, 
What makes that mammoth pimple on his nose ; 

Why sweetest blossoms oft bear bitter fruit ; 
Why cheerful crickets wear a mourning suit ; 
What dainty humming-birds, in dandy coats, 
Seek in the morning-glories' creamy throats; 
How from the thistle's cup, marauding bees 
Despite her bristling guard, her treasures, seize ; 
How stones increase in growth ; why sunbeams 

fade 
And leave the pleasant earth enwrapped in shade. 

As Hiawatha questioned on until 
He taxed Nokomis to her utmost skill, 
So they will query in their youthful zeal. 
With minds that quickly grasp, and hearts that 
feel. 

Of evolution, with its "how " and " when," 
They'll puzzle Huxley, o'er and o'er again ; 
And with swift haste they'll seek to learn each 

rule 
That solves these problems in fair Nature's school ; 
Because as our wise Shakspeare taught, their 

books 
Are found in "trees, in stones, in babbling brooks."' 



no POEMS WRITTEN 

Close these bright pages, and in clear mid-day, 
They'll grope in darkness, all along life's way. 

Then, O true teacher, study Nature's page 
And let its precepts all vour heart engage ; 
And like those silent slaves, the sap and root 
That clothe the showy boughs with leaves and 

fruit, 
Act well your part, and this plain truth declare : 
" One dignifies his calling by his care." 
Aim to be true, nor seek to question why 
On every hand exalted, proud and high 
Dull, self-inflated, pedagogic frauds 
Stand ranked and titled, while the world applauds. 

Remember that most mystic, potent sign, 

" I'll scratch j/(??/r head, my friend, if you'll scratch 

mine." 
Well may we pause and ruefully exclaim 
Behold how Figure-Heads may rise to fame ! 

My task is ended. If, perchance, I bring 
A thrust unkind, keen-edged by Satire's sting, 
I bring it only as an expert's test. 
To tear the shield of Truth from Falsehood's 
breast. 

Then cease, my Muse, nor let thy strain unkind 
No real worth no recognition find 
Of earnest effort and persistent will 
Life's noblest aim and mission to fulfill : 
For lo, to-day an earnest band I meet 
Who tread with eager, careful, patient feet 



FOR OCCASIONS. iii 

■ The path that leads to Truth's most blest abodes ; 
Nor have they sought the short and easy roads ; 
I've learned their path, I've marked its steep ascent 
And watched their wistful glances upward bent. 

Hail dear Alumni of the days of yore, 

We greet you gladly at our mother's door; 

We bid you welcome to this spacious hall, 

Its hospitahty is free to all. 

There was a day, — not very long ago, 

When you came home, and found us, as you know^ 

Just like that ancient lady in the shoe, 

We smiled a welcome, for what could we do ? 

We hoped you wouldn't come, but all the same, 

We had to ask you, and so on you came ! 

Our Alma Mater sought with yearning look 

To give you, every one, a cozy nook. 

To see that all alike were warmed and fed. 

That not a chick went supperless to bed ; 

But still the careful dame, though seldom vexed, 

Did seem at times to be somewhat perplexed 

To find her hearthstone, once so broad and wide. 

Too small, although we "squeezed in" side by 

side. 
Meanwhile, we watched her patient, care-worn face 
As earnestly, with stately, matron grace, 
She urged the Junior brood to study well, 
And show their Seniors how they'd learned to 

spell. 
And much we marveled how her girls and boys, 
In stifled air and midst a Babel noise. 
Could heed her words of wisdom and of grace ; 
But still they wrought, and time crept on apace. 



112 POEMS WRITTEN 

The good old lady shook her head and sighed, 
The house was small, that could not be denied. 
Not only small, but old and shaky too. 
With her, to will was but to plan and do. 
Now to the State she tremblingly appeals : 
Her hopes and fears in confidence reveals ; 
Remarks what noted progress has been made 
In every high profession, art, or trade 
In which her sons and daughters have engaged, 
KvL(!!i proves it, too, by Catalogue all paged ! 
She pleads that never has reproach, nor shame, 
Nor one foul blemish stained her honored name. 
'Tis done, the State responds, — O honored Dame, 
What nobler monument could mark thy fame .■' 

Through yon Great Window streams the Christ- 
mas light, 
And rare Mosaic patterns charm the sight ; 
Pupil and teacher gracefully portray 
The early dawn of this resplendent day, 
And speed a truth that quickens heart and mind : 
Sweet fruit may ripen 'neath a bitter rind ; 
In castle or in cottage, near or far, 
It is not zukere, but rather what we are. 
But Roll-Call summons us, and we'll away, 

As each famiUar name is called to-day. 

Our Alma Mater sighs, for some, alas, 

Do not respond. From out the waving grass 

On some lone hillside steals the wind's sad moan, — 

What need of roll-call has a cold, white stone .'' 

Long may our voices strong with moral might 

Be heard at roll-call in the Cause of Right : 



FOR OCCASIONS. 



113 



Swift be the progress of the eager feet 
That in the race with vain Pretence compete ; 
Strong be the arm that frees with fearless stroke 
The neck of Genius from its galling yoke, 
That bares bold Falsehood to the very bone, 
And places Truth upon her rightful throne. 



QUIRKS AND QUERIES, 



A SILICATE. 

Stern and stony was the bearing of fair Kate in 

all her ways, 
Yet a trifle metamorphic under passion's fusing 

blaze ; 
So it chanced a spark magnetic, from love's anvil 

burning fell 
On the cold, silicious bosom of this flinty demoi- 
selle ; 
And the crusted, noduled geode, that she used to 

call her heart 
Was soon entered by fleche d'amour (that, in 

French, means Cupid's dart). 
Then a geologic gouger plied the chisel of his fate, 
And above his whole collection placed this shining 

sili-Kate. 



TO PLAGIARISM. 

O shrewd reviser of all themes. 
Of theory and thought, 

Thy verse an odd mosaic seems 
Of mixed quotations wrought. 



ii8 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 

Thy muse with passion's fervid fire, 

To fair Apollo clings, 
But, ah, she tunes a borrowed lyre. 

And steals the lender's strings ! 

QUERY. 

What lights the flame that flashes from our eyes 
To stranger-eyes, responsive, on the street ? 

And as we backward glance, why no surprise 
That we a stolen glance should backward meet ? 

And when from this quick union of our eyes 
There leaps a new-born impulse, — ere it dies. 

Give it a name, ye psychologic wise. 

WHY NOT ? 

Our shrewd politicians who manage the wires. 
Soon rise to the height that commands their de- 
sires ; 
And when they grow giddy with soaring so high, 
Neither standing nor sitting of course they must 
lie! 

YOUR CHOICE. 

"Women sit, or move to and fro, some old, some young, 
The joung are beautiful — but the old are more beautiful than 
the young." — Leaves of Grass" Walt Whitman. 

O rash Walt Whitman, what wilt thou find next 
To interweave among thy Grassy Blades .-' 

Thy glumous gramina have sore perplexed 
The Phenogamic grub, that bores and spades 



QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 119 

To sap the juicy root of each green leaf 
That hides a floret-bud within its sheaf. 

Thy broadened Blades have root in no mean soil, 
Their fibres spring from Nature's richest mold ; 

Each subtle vein within its glossy foil 
Pulsates with life poetic, yet they hold 

A mystery, alas, beyond my ken, 

O gifted poet of the Endogen. 

But if this version of thy verse be true, 
That Old Spring Beauties, past their time of 
May, 
Are quite as fresh and quite as fair to view 
As pink June roses, blushing by the way. 
Then oh, what huge bouquets await thy call, 
And, good Walt Whitman, thou shalt have them 
all! 



OH, DON'T YOU REMEMBER? 

(A College Reminiscence.) 
Oh, don't you remember Joe Wilder, Hugh Brown, 

Joe Wilder, the wildest of boys. 
Who was known through the length and the 
breadth of the town, 
By his ready-made, rollicking noise ? 

And don't you remember old " Squeery," Hugh 
Brown, 

And his cynical, — "That is superb! " 
When we floundered in giving the stem of a noun. 

Or tripped up on the root of a verb ? 



I20 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 

And don't you remember the " Snug'ry," Hugh 
Brown, 
Where he found the strong, odorous signs 
That some lore-loving students in slippers and 
gown 
Had been puffing away at long nines ? 

And don't you remember he scored it, Hugh 
Brown, 

By a look, unmistakably plain ; 
And how we would rather haveyiV/him come down 

With the weight of his gold-headed cane ? 

Oh, don't you remember Old Bridget, Hugh 
Brown, 
With her eyebrows so bushy and black. 
How she swooned with dismay in the face of a 
frown, 
And revived in the face of a smack? 

And don't you remember the garret, Hugh Brown, 
With its roof pointing straight to the sky, 

Where she nursed us through measles on pillows 
of down. 
And just gorged us on sweet pumpkin pie ? 

Oh, never forget stern old "Squeery," Hugh 
Brown, 
Nor his petrified stare of surprise 
When you blundered upon the right stem of a 
noun, 
In a manner uncommonly wise. 



QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 121 

And do not forget dear old Bridget, Hugh Brown, 
Nor the light that she shed on your track ; 

For her spirit went up, when her body went down, 
And both went where they'll never come back ! 

And oh ! don't forget young Joe Wilder, Hugh 
Brown, 

For though vigor and bloom may depart, 
Yet Time's fiercest ravages ne'er can tear down 

The strong walls of a true, loving heart. 

THE SELF-MADE MAN — HIS NAME. 

I promised him that I would weave his name 
Into a sonnet — therefore, I begin ; 
But how, in fourteen lines, e'er hope to win 
For him the laurel-wreaths of lasting fame 
That his rare gifts and dauntless deeds may claim .-* 
" Self-made," — he bids me weave this oft within 
My humble verse. His course has been 
A round of brilliant conquests in Life's game, 
F'ought single-handed, thus he spins the tale ; 
And as in grand review his triumphs pass, 
His " self-made " craft has weathered every gale ; 
But I have reached the thirteenth line, alas. 
And lest both Pegasus and promise fail, 
I'll haste at once to "write him down an Ass." 

IS IT A FAILURE.? 

Oh, is it a failure, this union of hands. 

Of dowers and mortgages, houses and lands, 



122 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 

And paraphernalia that always commands 

The homage of every station ? 
It surely should not be a question of doubt, 
For ever since Adam went strolling about 
With elbows and knees, yea, with heels and toes 

out, 
And vowed that a wife he could not do without, 

We have honored this holy relation. 

In fact, father Adam did not tell a fib. 
The evening he put on his new fig-leaf bib. 
And said he'd get married, if it took a rib. 

And ordered his family carriage : 
A carriage for two, that was made to seat four, 
For Adam was honest and true to the core, 
And as for divorce, Eve was safe on that score, — 
Now why should our Devil pop in at the door 
And mention the thing that we'd like to ignore ? 

"Aye, but that was an old-fashioned mar- 
riage ! " 



RI^SUMfi. 

As I was remarking a moment ago, - 

The old-fashioned weddings were not made for 

show, 
The swain had his sweetheart, the maiden her 

beau. 
But courtships were rare, and the magnetic glow 
Of their passion was not evanescent. 



QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 123 

They shared with each other through long-wedded 

years, 
Life's sunshine and sorrow, its hopes and its 

fears. 
And mingled together their smiles and their tears, — 
The full honeymoon, as the record appears. 
Never waning, as now, to a crescent. 

We often observe in the conjugal bower, 
That Hymen's mysterious, magical power, 
In grafting the fruit of affection's fair flower, 
Makes some acids sweet, and some saccharines, 
sour 

As fortune's queer compound arranges. 
But all who " look backward " a hundred years 

hence, 
Will marvel to learn of the charming pretence 
Of ardent devotion, where dollars and cents 
Could sever or bind two fond hearts — on the fence 

Awaiting commercial exchanges ! 



THE PUZZLED ENTOMOLOGIST. 

" You say you found it on the fence, 
And that its color changed when you 

Peered 'neath its wings } That is immense, 
I scarcely can believe it true. 

Three-winged ! Well, well, — now let me trace. 

The Diptera } No, that has two. 
Orthoptera > No, that gives place 

To four-winged insects, that won't do." 



124 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 

The three-winged myth with changing hue, 
Our scientist viewed o'er and o'er ; 

With microscopic eye, anew 

He taxed his deep, entomic lore ; 

But taxed in vain. The gauze-winged bee. 
The silken moth, the dragon-fly, 

The busy ant, the supple flea 

Each passed before his mental eye. 

Then suddenly his puzzled look 

Changed to a phase half-sneer, half-frown, 
And pushing back both lens and book 

He seized a label and wrote down : 

" Amorphous type — can leap and fly, 
Can climb or crawl at will, — and hence 

Its Genus plain : Mugwumpii, 
Its native habitat, the fence ! " 



MYTHS. 

On high Mount Olympus, as old legends go, — 
A mountain that stands with its head in the snow, 
Bold Jupiter changed himself into a crow, 
And carried off Juno, — the legends say so. 

Without the slight loss of a feather ! 
But she soon grew jealous of this tricky bird, 
For rumors and scandals she constantly heard, 
And if she but hinted her fears, by a word. 
He would c-a-w in a manner extremely absurd. 

And be sulky for hours together. 



QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 125 

Fair Juno was highly offended, of course, 
And turned to the courts to obtain a divorce, 
But got no redress from this popular source. 
For Jupiter c-a-w-e-d till he made himself hoarse. 
And then sought to quell her by actual force ; 

While birds of the very same feather 
Declared that some facts (should they choose to 

relate) 
Would kindle such wrath in the breast of her 

mate. 
That Juno would wish herself down in that state 
Where torch-light processions such vapors create 

As to alter the state of the weather. 

Calisto, her rival, was famously fair. 
So Juno transfigured her into a bear. 
And cruelly caged in the very same lair, 
Calisto's son Arcus ; the thing I declare 
Was harsh, for a woman who had any share 
In heart-felt affection, but she "didn't care," 

For such was her manner of speaking ; 
But Jupiter seeing what Juno had done, 
Transferred the two Brunos 'way up near the sun. 
And here comes the moral :— Most quarrels begun 
Through envy and malice, will, in the long run 
Recoil on the agent,— the "kick of the gun," 
The game, meanwhile, soaring 'way up to the sun. 
And nothing of value will ever be won 

By those who for vengeance are seeking. 



CYPRESS SPRAYS. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

In the "City of Rest" a new grave has been 
made, 
And my heart turns toward it to-day ; 
For beneath the low sod a dear form has been 
laid 
That I loved in the years passed away. 

Ah, how shall I paint the bright virtues that 
crowned 
Thy life ever blameless and true ? 
Thy clay, like all mortals, must blend with the 
ground. 
But thy spirit earth's taint never knew. 

All gentleness, charity, sympathy, love, 

A stranger to passion and hate ; 
'Tis meet that earth's angels be gathered above. 

Though earth be left twice desolate. 

I long to kneel down by thy far-away grave, 
And weep forth the anguish within, 

And pray that thy guardian spirit may save 
My feet from temptation and sin. 



130 CYPRESS SPRA YS. 

*Tis well that earth's sunbeams be sometimes with- 
drawn, 
Else heaven would seem not so near ; 
'Tis well when we trace in our hopes over- 
thrown, 
A blessing baptized with a tear .; 

'Tis well that our feet are not called to depart 
While we tread the dark pathway of sin, — 

That Death, the Iconoclast, breaks not the heart 
When he shatters its idols within. 



THE EARLY DEAD. 

Thy life was but a little book. 

With leaf uncut and page unread ; 

And as upon thy face I look 
I cannot call thee dead. 

The cloud that flecks the summer sky, 
The frosted lace-work on the pane. 

The breath of lilies floating by 
Are not more free from stain 

Than thy young soul. Thou hadst thy part 

In life's uneven, doubtful race, 
And won the goal ere on thy heart 

Sin's touch had left one trace. 



C YPRESS SPRA YS. 131 

GONE. 

A sunbeam to the sky has gone, 
Back to the sky that gave it birth, 

A note is missing from your song, 
'T will ne'er be found again on earth. 

An early flower has faded, died, 
The frailest flower in all the wreath 

You held so dear, and long you tried 
To shield it from the chill of death. 

That sunbeam now divinely pure 

Shall cheer you in its native sphere ; 

That flower, too fragile to endure 

The blights and blasts that smote it here, 

Developed by a hand Divine, 
Shall bless you in its native bowers. — 
Alas, we may many garlands twine, 
But cypress wreaths alone are ours ! 



BEYOND. 

As one from whose light grasp a jewel slips, 
I still pursue an eager, fruitless quest, 

And almost feel her dainty finger-tips 

Against my tear-stained cheek in pity, pressed, 

And almost hear, above my heart's wild beat. 

The patter of her willing, welcome feet. 



132 C YPRESS SPRA YS. 

I wake at midnight, with a sense renewed 
Of all my loss, — of dreary days in store ; 

I call her name in my lone solitude, — 

Ah, will she answer from that far off shore ? 

Alas, how far, — how near that shore may be, 

Is known to none but angels pure as she. 

She leads the way. — Across Death's dark abyss 
Be thou, oh. Faith, the bridge on which I 
stand 

To mark the path that from such woe as this 
Leads up to light, to love, to that blest land 

Where I shall clasp again my white-robed child 

Fair as she left me, spotless, undefiled. 



THREE YEARS AGO. 

Shadows, dark and gloomy shadows, 
Such as only mourners know. 
Fell upon our cheerful hearth-stone. 
Only three short years ago. 

We had been so glad and happy 
Ere was dealt the fatal blow. 
That we scarce could bear, unshaken, 
All that came three years ago. 

Now our hearts are ever saddened. 
And our tears as freely flow. 
As they fell upon his coffin. 
Only three short years ago. 



CYPRESS SPRAYS. 133 

Checkered sunshine falls around us, 
On his grave so green and low, 
But no shadow dims his sunlight. 
As it did three years ago. 

We alone are left in shadow 
And in darkness here below, 
Left to mourn the free, glad spirit 
Lost to earth, three years ago. 



SAVED. 

Sleeeping beneath the green willow to-night 

Is that dear little lambkin of ours. 
And I'm trying to say it is just, Lord, and right 
That she's buried forever there out of my sight, 

'Neath her bed of bright mosses and flowers. 

Taken away from the evil to come 

Is the sweet one that's slumbering there. 
Taken away from the sorrow and sin, 
From the conflict without and the conflict within 
That her frail, tender life could not bear. 

Spared from the tempest and safe in the fold 

Of the good, faithful Shepherd above ; 
And though her poor body is senseless and cold, 
And sinks 'neath the grave's loathsome mildew 
and mold 
Yet her spirit knows nothing but love. 



134 CYPRESS SPRAYS. 

I know there's a spot on this fair earth of ours 

Where I shall at length find repose ; 
Embowered mayhap mid green mosses and 

flowers, 
Where birdlings shall chirp through the long sum- 
mer hours 
From their nests in the myrtle and rose. 

Ah, then if my spirit may enter the fold 

Which the good, faithful Shepherd hath blest, 
Though Death's clammy hand with its pitiless 

hold 
Shall force me to share the grave's mildew and 

mold, 

Yet how gladly I'll welcome its rest ! 



SEVEN YEARS AGO. 

Seven years ! Alas, the shadow 
That across our threshold lay, 

Falls as darkly on our hearthstone 
As it did that bitter day. 

Seven years the blue-eyed pansies 
O'er her grave their watch have kept, 

While beneath the flowers and grasses 
She in dreamless rest has slept. 

Night dews fall in tear-drops round her. 
Weeping willows near her wave, 

Bird songs float with mournful cadence 
O'er our loved one's early grave. 



C YPRESS SPRA VS. 135 

We "forget her" ? shall the star-gems 

Fail to deck the brow of night ? 
Shall the sunbeams fail to cheer us 

With their genial warmth and light ? 

Just as well might we forget her, 
She who blessed us from her birth, 

She the sunbeam of our household — 
Faded from our si^ht on earth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MY LADY DEBLOCK. 

"By the light of the fire, he can be seen looking toward 
the moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be 
seen in profile, perfectly still." — Bleak House. 

I cannot view her as a grand ideal, 

That stately, haughty queen of Chesney Wold ! 

I take the tale to heart as sadly real. 

And when with tears, the picture I behold, 

Which he, the master artist, wrought with care, 

Her wrongs, her sorrows, her remorse, I share. 

I hear a steady, stealthy, muffled tread 

Fall on the " Ghost-walk," soft as shifting sands ; 

I see the deadly pallor quick o'erspread 

Her brow, her cheek, and her fair, jeweled hands. 

As her relentless judge, with legal care. 

The deep-hid secret of her life lays bare. 

I follow her when in that fear-winged flight. 

She hurries, foot-sore, through the crowded street. 

Lost in the blackness of the wintry night. 

" I see no way before my guilty feet," 

I hear her cry, and list her sobbing moan — 

" Ah, I must travel my dark way, alone." 



I40 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And that dark way leads to a pauper mound ! 
Her starving heart compels her weary feet 
To seek the spot where she may touch the ground 
That holds the form, — that hides the last retreat 
Of one, who, lying there, a senseless clod. 
Stole from her breast the rarest gift of God. 

I see her at the pauper graveyard gate. 

"The place, I've often had in my mind," she said ; 

One icy hand has clasped the iron grate, 

And prone and helpless lies my lady — dead ! 

Ah, Charity, thy softest robe prepare, 

And veil her shame with thy most tender care. 



EXPERIENCE. 

" First test the tension of your thread before you 

wind at all," 
My mother said, as clumsily I wound a shapeless 

ball; 
How well I learned a lesson then, that now I oft 

recall ! 

" And favor the weak places, dear, the flaws along 

your thread, 
And wind your ball more evenly, and lap the ends, 

instead 
Of tying those unsightly knots ; they spoil your 

work," she said. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 

'Tvvas years ago, — but now her words I clearly 

comprehend ; 
In each fine cord that binds the heart of friend to 

cherished friend, 
Are brittle flaws that will not bear strong tension 

to the end. 

So, when a thoughtless tongue lets fall a word that 
pains my ear, 

I hide the flush of wounded pride, and check re- 
sentment's tear, 

And thus the cords that wed our hearts grow 
stronger, year by year. 

When Malice spins her subtle thread to fashion 

Scandal's ball, 
And busy Gossip's giddy reel the tangled skeins 

lets fall, 
I test the tension of each strand before I wind at 

all! 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 

O ye withered leaves of autumn, 
How ye mind me of my fate, 

How ye mind me that my changeful 
Day of life is waxing late ; 

That the genial, glowing summer 
Of my joyous youth is past ; 

And that Life's chill, somber autumn 
Ends in Death's cold, wintry blast ! 



142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But I thank thee, O my Father, 
That the semblance endeth here; 

That unlike the leaves of autumn 
That must perish with the year, 

My glad spirit shall awaken 
To a life of light and joy, 

Where autumn winds no longer moan 
Nor wintry blasts destroy. 



THE FIRST SNOW. 

There falls a veil of spotless white, 
The first white veil of snow, 

Upon thy lonely grave to-night, 
The cold winds tell me so. 

Each silvery ilake, that robes the land 

In fleecy folds of white, 
Falls softly as a spirit hand 

On thy low grave to-night. 

I did not mark Death's stealthy shade 
That nearer drew each day ; 

I did not see them when they laid 
Thy wasted form away. 

One curling tress of auburn hair, — 
'Twas all that came, — ah, me ; 

Alone, I weep, with none to share 
My grief in losing thee ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 143 

A broken circle waits me now, 

And tearful eyes I see, 
Two aged heads in sorrow bow 

That may not look for thee. 

I'll haste to grant the boon they ask, 

The boon they sadly crave, 
But ere the living forms I clasp, 

I'll seek thy new-made grave. 

I know that sunbeams grace the skies, 

That shadows fall to earth ; 
I know that when the body dies. 

The spirit hath new birth ; 

And would my soul, like thine, were free 

From every tie below. 
That I might calmly rest with thee 

Beneath a veil of snow. 



THE TRUE QUEEN. 

Fair Rose, thou art my Queen, 
And at thy feet 
Have I not sworn it, yea, a thousand times, and 
more ? 
Then wherefore dim the luster of thy sheen, 
And jealous, weep. 
That I should pause, perchance, at fair Viola's 
door ? 



144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

To be a Queen, Sir Knight, 

May please the sense 
That subtle pride too oft awakes within the heart ; 
But could'st thou read a woman's soul aright. 
Small recompense 
Is hers who giveth all that she may win a part ! 

A Queen may well command 

Thine homage true ; 
But when into thy garden, thou dost haply roam. 
Why gather tenderly within thy hand 
The Violet, blue, 
That her rare fragrance may rejoice thee in thy 
home ? 

The subtly woven crown 

That Love bestows. 
To me were little worth, should Cupid, changeful 
roam, 
And captured by the Violet, cast down 
The broken Rose ! 
Nay, she alone is Queen whose fragrance fills the 
home. 



GOING DOWN TO THE GRAVE. 

Going down to the grave with no hope in thy 

heart, 
That thy God will receive thee sin-robed as thou 

art ? 
Life's sunshine extinguished, with faltering tread, 
In darkness and doubt going down to the dead ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 

Going clown to the grave in the blackness of 

night, 
No star-beam of love from the Father of Light ? 
No Savior's sweet presence and promise to save ? 
A stranger to God going down to the grave ? 

No God and no hope ! Where, oh where, is thy 

stay ? 
Thy Savior long pleading turns not yet away ; 
His sad eye zvill pity ; His strong arm can save ; 
Why then in thine own strength go down to the 

grave ? 

Thine hour of gay pleasure ere long will be o'er ; 
A dark gulf awaits thee ; its mad waters roar, — 
Too late thou wilt call on the mighty to save, 
When thy prayer shall be lost in Eternity's grave. 

RUNAWAY JIM. 

'Twas near the Dismal Swamp, where cypress 

wood, 
And stately oaks, and tall primeval pines, 
For years on years, like sentinels had stood, 
Gray-bearded with dead moss and tangled vines. — 
'Twas near this swamp, slave-haunted, that I lay 
The scenes long passed — but ah, so real to-day ! 

Here stood a mansion, in the happy days 
Ere fair Virginia's flowery hills and plains 
Had felt the scathing breath, and scorching blaze 
Of blighting War, and his attendant trains 
Of evil, that like fiends of wrath and hate, 
Laid all her beauty waste and desolate. 



146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I see the thrifty acres, smiling, crowned 
With ripened wheat ; the fertile meadow lands ; 
The reach of woodland, on the higher ground ; 
The sweet rose-hedges, trimmed by careful hands ; 
The bordered pathways, winding here and there ; 
And fragrant clover nodding everywhere. 

I see the matron of this broad estate 
In regal beauty o'er her household reign ; 
Proud of the serfs that on her bidding wait. 
Proud of her wealth and high ancestral name, 
But prouder far of her twin-boys that stood 
The future solace of her widowhood. 

Now comes the day when for the love of gold, 
She steels her heart against the cry of pain ! 
The trader pays his price ; the slave is sold, 
His weeping wife, and mother, plead in vain, — 
But, that you may the scene as plainly see, 
List to the tale as it was told to me : 

"Ah, honey, I has seen de day 
When bofe mine eyes run clean away 
Wid tears dat neber ceased to flow. 
Laws holp my life ! Why, doan ye know.? 
'Twas when my Jim was skulkin' roun', 
Dat Dismal Swamp. — Sho', I'll be boun'. 
Ye neber hearn me tell o' him } 
Why, Rhody's daddy, dat's my Jim. 

Ye see our missus done an* sol' 
Him to a trader; an' he stole 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 

Away dat bery night, an' hid 
Down in de Swamp; den missus bid 
De ober-seer hunt his track 
Wid all de houn's, to fotch him back. 

Dey seerched ontirin', night an' day, 
But Jim, he hid hisse'f away ; 
An' me an' Juno, — dat's his wife, 
Made sartin sho' he'd lose his life ; 
An' all de chillun, day an' night, 
Po' lam's, a cryin', wild wid fright. 

But a'ter dey hed scrimaged roun', 
An' Jim was nowhar to be foun' ; 
An' a'ter 'bout a year hed passed. 
An' we'd all gin him up, at last, 
De twins, dat's massa Bije an' Ben, 
(Ole missus' heart was sot on dem,) 
Dey tuk it in der beds one day, 
To go down to de dam an' play. 

So finishin' der 'lotted sums, 

Dey tuk der hooks, an' lines, an' wu'ms, 

An' went down to de Feeder, whar 

De stream is mighty swift an' cl'ar. 

To cotch some fish. Sence dey was bawn 

Ole missus kep' em near de lawn. 

An' neber let 'em 'scape her eye ; 
But somehow on dat. day, an' why, 
I disremember, seein' it's ben, 
A dozen years or mo' sence den. 



148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Dem twins dey slipped f'om missus' sight, 
An' neber peared agin dat night ! 

Ah, missus didn't know twell den, 
When she lost little Bije an' Ben, 
How deep it cuts, down in de heart, 
Whev chile an' parent's druv apart. 

All night de grown folks swa'med about, 
All night ye mought uv hearn em shout ; 
But 'twa'nt no use, fer not a soun' 
Come back to tell de twins was foun'. 

Po' missus, 'stracted, walked de flo', 
An' when de mawnin sun once mo' 
His cheerin' beams, sent laughin' down, 
She bid de fiel'-han's, all aroun' 
To scour de wood, de swamp, an' fen. 
But still no news o' Bije an' Ben. 

Wal, jest at night, de second day, 
She, sperrit-broken, tried to pray ; 
Wid tears a streamin' down her face, 
She tole de Lawd her wretched case ; 
When right afo' her 'stonished eyes 
Dar stood my Jim ! Laws, ef de skies 
Hed fell right down to yeth below, 
She could n't ben mo' skeered, I know. 

In bofe his ban's he clutched a cap, 
De warter streamin', drap by drap 
From bofe der brims. She gib a shriek, 
But Jim, he neber stayed to speak. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 

Ner 'splain de meanin', — neber said 
De twins was foun' alive ner dead. 

Wal, jest about a minute mo', 

Dar stood inside de open do', 

Dem precious lam's, 'scaped f'om all harms ! 

An' rushin' to der mudder's arms 

Dey tole der story, blin' wid tears. 

'Tis sump'in like a dozen years 

Sence dat tuk place, but yit I seem 

To see it like it was a dream. 

Dey waded f rough de stream, to fin' 

A place to drap de hook an' line ; 

But jest whar it was pow'ful deep, 

Dey lost der footin', could n't keep 

A stan'in spot ; an' seein' der fate, 

Dey screamed for holp, but 'twas too late ; 

An' so at last, dey bofe went down. 

Locked in one nudder's arms to drown. 

But 'stead o' dat cold, slimy grave, 
Dey woked up in a mons'ous cave ; 
An' when der eyes dey opened wide, 
Dar stood po' Jim, clus by der side ! 
Fer he hed watched 'em wade de stream, 
An' seen 'em fall, an* hearn 'em scream, 
An' clomb de bank, der lives to save, 
An' toted 'em inside his cave. 

' Why did he take der drippin' caps 
To show der ma ? ' I reckon p'r'aps 
'Twas just to let her taste de smart 
Dat he felt gnawin' at his heart. 



ISO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Fer twice he crep' so near at night, 
Dat he could see his cabin's light ; 
An' he could 'stinctly hear de soun's 
O' Juno's voice, but den de houn's 
Dey skeered him so, he dasn't stay ; 
An' so he'd trem'lin' steal away. 
An' dasn't look, one minute, back. 
For fear de houn's 'ud scent his track. 



An' when de stawm come peltin' down, 

Fit to t'ar off de roof, I foun' 

Po' comfo't in de wa'mth an' light, 

A knowin' Jim was out dat night, 

A starvin' an' a hidin' whar 

De p'isen varmints make der la'r. 



Ah, honey, when yer chillun goes 
Down in dat Swamp, ye neber knows 
What hoi's 'em dar. 'Taint men, alone, 
Dat frough dem dismal shadders roam ; 
An' fo' de Lawd, Jim's hed his shar* 
O' sorrer in dis life to b'ar. 



' Did he come back ? ' Yes, I'll be boun' 
For missus sent de yerran' roun' 
To ebery cross-road in de Ian*, 
Ef Jim 'ud come, she'd allers stan' 
'Twixt him an' harm, an' — doan ye see, 
Dat's Jim wid Rhody on his knee ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 

KIND WORDS ONLY. 
How like music o'er the waters — 

How like sunshine on the sea — 
How like morning's brightest day-beam, 

Comes a kindly word to me. 

When my life-cares make me weary ; 

When my soul is racked with pain, 
Lo! a word of kindness greets me. 

And my heart grows glad again. 

Oh, this life is full of sunshine — 

Full of sunshine every day, 
And unless we watch for shadows, 

They fall not athwart our way ; 

And this earth were almost heaven. 

Could we every blessing see ; 
But we're waiting — ever waiting 

For some blessing yet to be ! 

Bright, how bright would be earth's pathways, 

And how like the world above, 
Were our words all "words of kindness," 

And our deeds all "deeds of love." 



GRAVE OF "LEATHER-STOCKING." 

Is fiction truth? Do I but dream, as tearfully 

alone 
I kneel beside a grass-grown grave marked by a 

mossy stone, ' 



152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Which bears a name so time-bedimmed I scarce the 

words may trace, 
And just beneath — "Let no rude hand disturb 

this burial-place." 

"Path-finder," "Hunter," "Pale-faced Chief" — 
all titles were the same 

To one who bore a Christian soul beneath a sav- 
age name ; 

For rude he was, and all unlearned in every let- 
tered page, 

And yet the Book of Nature read with wisdom of 
a sage ! 

Here, just beyond the hunter's grave, low, crouch- 
ing at his feet, 

"Old Hector" with his master shares this quiet, 
wild retreat ; 

A savage hand in honest faith entombed him thus 
with care. 

That in the Spirit's hunting-grounds he'd join his 
master there. 

Here 'neath the sycamore and oak the forest hun- 
ter sought 

To rest his worn and weary frame when all life's 
toils were wrought ; 

Improvement's hum and busy din fell harshly on 
his ear. 

Far more he loved the haunts where roam the 
bison and the deer. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 

Here, swift the Pawnee's arrow sped, and here his 

light canoe. 
When launched upon the crystal Loup, swift as 

his arrows flew ; 
The crystal Loup where each bright wave by 

flowery banked caressed, 
Along the dimpled surface bore a diamond in its 

breast ! 

And here, when on the war-path, went the savage 

chief in pride, 
He prayed the Great Wacondah that his ear he'd 

open wide. 
And show him well the Teton's trail, the ambush 

of the Sioux, 
That from his belt a hundred scalps should fright 

his foe anew. 

Ah, strange emotions thrill my soul as wandering 

here alone, 
I muse upon the tragic deeds of days forever 

flown, 
When one primeval forest hemmed these fair, broad 

prairie lands. 
Where fiercely rose the dismal whoop of prowling 

savage bands. 

Farewell, ye scenes, for never-more my feet shall 

hither stray ; 
But oh, when faith within me wanes and heaven 

seems far away, 



154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I'll mind me of a strange, lone man — a savage 

yet a sage, 
Who studied Nature's book and read God's name 

on every page ! 



"HIS OWN ACCUSER." 

" Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign 
Can match the fierce, unutterable pain 
He feels, who night and day devoid of rest, 
Carries his own accuser in his breast." 

(Gifford's yuvetial.) 

There's a grim and ghastly phantom. 
Whose fierce eyes upon me stare 
Like the eye-balls of a demon, — 
With a crazed and burning glare ; 
And no matter where I hide me. 
This grim spectre still is there. 

And within his bloodless fingers 
Is a scroll he clutches fast, 
And therein a panorama 
Of the dark and evil past, 
Evil records that shall curse me 
While my life and being last. 

With the sunbeam and as noiseless, 
At the early wake of morn, 
Lo, he glideth to my pillow. 
And his ghastly, ghostly form 
Is the first to make me sorrow 
That another day is born. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 

All day long this gloomy shadow 
With a stealthy, muffled tread, 
Walks before me and about me 
While I faint with awe and dread ; 
And I wonder if his presence 
Will be with me when I'm dead. 

When the twilight shadows gather 
And with broken heart I bow, 
And in contrite anguish murmur 
" Lord, have mercy on me now," 
This fierce demon whispers " Never. 
Not on such a wretch as thou." 

When heart-wearied with earth's pleasure, 

I would seek a higher goal — 

Some strange power holds me earthward 

With a steady, firm control ; 

'Tis the spectre's bony fingers 

Pressing down upon my soul. 

Every hope my heart has cherished, — 
Every sight and sense and sound 
That was wont to lift my spirit 
To a higher, broader ground, 
Is made hateful by the torment 
That unto my life is bound. 

So my soul is clad in sadness 

And in sorrow all the day, 

And the Future's world of sunshine 

Has for me no cheerful ray, 

For the Phantom's gloomy shadow 

Chases every beam away. 



156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

MY LITTLE QUERIST. 

" Why did my little sister come 

Unless she meant to stay ? 
Could anybody love her more 

Than we ?" says little May. 

" Why did she go ? Where did she go ? 

What makes her stay away ? 
Did anybody need her more 

Than we ? " asks little May. 

Alas, these tearful questions wake 

Sad memories to-day ; 
"He needs her most Who loves her most" 

Is all that I can say. 

THE WATER TIGER. 

Have you watched the Dytiscus, and noted his 

skill, 
As his metal-clad craft he propels at his will ? 
Now he glides along swiftly o'er smooth mimic 

waves, 
Now he suddenly dives to the sub-marine caves 
Of his little marsh-ocean, and searches within 
For such booty as only this Corsair may win. 

Ah, a Corsair indeed ! From his earliest days 
What a savage career his life-record betrays ! 
For, see ! the young larva, with murd'rous intent, 
Is already a pirate on fierce carnage bent. 
With his horn-plated visor he seizes his prey. 
And with ready-set fangs bears it swiftly away. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 157 

Thus the poor hapless victim its life-blood must 

give 
That this infant marauder may flourish and live. 
O thou antic young tad-pole, how sad is thy fate ! 
Thou hast counted the days between thee and 

a state 
Of green, velvet-clad frog-ship, but counted in 

vain, 
For thy blood-thirsty captor regards not thy pain. 

Thou must perish and die ; he will fatten and 

thrive, 
To expound the grand law that the fittest survive ; 
While thy finny companions with big, bubbly eyes. 
Gaze upon thee bewildered, in silent surprise 
That a fierce Water-Tiger with bold, sudden grip 
Should cut off both thy hopes and thy tail at one 

snip! 



SUBMISSION. 

Lord, I am weary of debasing toil, 

Lift me, I pray Thee, to a higher plane ; 

For I would fain behold the ruby dawn 

Of promised day, — the day of peace and rest 

To those who trust in Thee. My aching feet 

Are tired, and torn with the sharp thorns of care 

As wearily I struggle on and on 

Through tangled thickets set with snares of sin. 



1 58 MISCELLANEO US POEMS, 

Point out, dear Lord, that straight and narrow 

way 
From which I strayed, in search of Pleasure's form 
That vanished ere my hand had touched her hem ! 

I bow my head 'neath Thy offended frown 
And shrink not from thy chast'ning rod in fear ; 
For well I know that when that frown hath passed, 
Thy smile, approving, will new heart restore ; 
And when my festering wounds shall close and 

heal, 
New robed and free from all unsightly scar. 
Shall I in strength, and hope, and faith arise. 
Filled with a peace that none but Thou canst give. 



SPRING HARBINGERS. 

Our Mother Earth is in her loom. 
And weaving, night and day ; 

Her new spring carpet must be done 
Before the month of May ! 

Note well the stripes of red and green, 
Of yellow, brown, and blue, 

In warp and woof I ne'er have seen 
Shades of such tender hue. 

Our grand Snow-King is melting down, 

And nevermore will rise ; 
The icicles that spike his crown 

Have dwindled, too, in size : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 

His fair, round cheek reveals a scar, 

His noble Roman nose 
Gives evidence of real catarrh, 

And — see ! that robin goes 

And perches on the old well-sweep, 

And strokes her glossy breast, 
Then turns and takes a doubtful peep 

Into her last year's nest. 

The hill-side, just across the lake 

Shows patches, here and there 
Of snow, like some huge Christmas cake 

Picked prematurely bare ; 

And at its base, a ledge, and plain 

Its naked ribs I see 
Beneath a wasting counterpane 

Once white as white could be. 

And busy fingers I behold 

That weave with fairy-floss, 
As on the bare rocks hard and cold 

They spread their mats across. 

Weave on, weave on, dear Mother Earth, 

Thy carpet warm and bright. 
Of warp or woof thou hast no dearth, 

And with what new delight 

I'll tread thy velvet tapestry 

With beauty so replete. 
And praise the rare benignity 

That placed it 'neath my feet. 



i6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My heart leaps high, as far and wide, 
Where e'er I chance to stray 

I find sweet harbingers that hide 
Their elfin forms away, 

Down deep within the tangled woods, 
With that bright swarm of B's, — 

The Birds, the Butterflies and Buds 
That seek such haunts as these. 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 

The sun shines in my outer world, 

But darkness reigns within, 
A fearful gloom enshrouds my soul — 

The nebula of sin. 
Dear Savior, smile away this gloom. 

And let the sunlight in. 

Sweet bird-songs cheer my outer world. 

But anguish wails within. 
Ambition, pride, and gross deceit 

Have bound my soul in sin ; 
Then, O my Savior, break these bonds. 

And let the sunlight in ! 

Temptations throng my way without. 
Remorse broods dark within ; 

The chains that bind my tortured soul 
Are festered o'er with sin ; 

Dear Savior, send thy healing balm. 
And let the sunlight in. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. i6i 

While pleasure gayly smiles without, 

What torment reigns within ! 
And still, poor weakling that I am, 

I tread the paths of sin. 
My Savior, I am lost if thou 

Let not the sunlight in. 



NO ONE TO CARRY THE KEYS. 

(A Dixie Bachelor's Solilocjuj.) 

I've bought me a snug little cottage. 

As cozy as cozy can be ; 
Not down by the dark rolling river, 

Nor yet by the blue rolling sea ; 

But here in my own " Happy Valley," 
Half hid by the tall, waving trees, 

But oh, what is life in a cottage 
With no one to carry the keys .'' 

I turn to my desolate dwelling. 
Whene'er the day's labor is o'er. 

But find there no gentle form waiting, 
To clasp at the half-open door. 

Aunt Dinah comes in from the kitchen. 
And mumbles such phrases as these, 

** Wish Massa'd make haste and get married, 
I'm tired of toting de keys." 

My larder is full to o'erflowing, 

With vegetables, poultry and hams, 

For those with a taste more exquisite, 
I've claret, fruit, jellies, and jams. 



i62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But when at my table I linger, 

To feast on such dainties as these, 

My appetite sinks with my spirits, 
I've no one to carry the keys. 

To tell of my cares and my crosses, 
Domestic'ly speaking, — would cause 

Most any young lady of feeling. 
At least for a moment to pause ; 

And pausing, she then might indulge in 
Soliloquies something like these : — 

" Poor fellow, he's lonely," — and — "may-be 
He'd like me to carry the keys ! " 

So when I've a few moments' leisure, 
I'll call on some fair one I know, 

I wont ask a formal permission, 
To be " for the season " her beau, 

I won't swear her eyes are like diamonds, 
Nor even fall down on my knees, 

I'll just ascertain if she loves me. 
If so she shall carry the keys ! 

OCTOBER. 

Lazy, hazy, pale October, 
Nature's Quaker, grave and sober, 
Spurning all the brilliant flowers 
Peeping forth from Summer bowers ; 
ChiHing them with frown so bitter 
That their eyes with frost-drops glitter ; 
Floret-eyes with frost-drops filling 
By thy glance, so cold, so chilling. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163 

Yet, though Quaker-like and sober, 
Thou hast many a phase, October ; 
Thou hast many a changing notion 
When thy thoughts are set in motion ; 
For to-day we find thee choosing 
Neutral tints, all else refusing ; 
Then, like some gay, dashing fellow. 
These are changed for brilliant yellow, 

Indian-red, green, brown, and umber. 
Tints and half-tints without number ; 
Nature's wardrobe freely rifling. 
All to please a taste so trifling ; 
And her garments rudely rending, 
Never making, always spending, — 
Sure thou mayest be called, with reason, 
Nature's spendthrift of the season. 



THE LAST REVEILLE. 

Headlej states, in his History of Napoleon and his Mar- 
shals, that M'Donald, while crossing the Splugen Pass with 
his army of fifteen thousand men, lost nearly two hundred 
of them, many of whom were swept away by the avalanches. 
A drummer, whose fall over the precipice was broken by 
masses of snow, reached the bottom unharmed, and for one 
hour beat his drum rapidly for relief. But all in \ain, and he 
survived his fall only to die a more cruel death of cold, famine, 
and despair. 

Old Splugen's brow grew dark with storms 
As brave M'Donald's staggering line — 

A mass of weary, war-worn forms — - 
Her snowy hights began to climb. 



1 64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Still boldly pressed those columns on, 

While storm and wind swept fiercely past, 

And " Vive I' Empereur " rang out anon, 
As if to taunt the Alpine blast. 

But suddenly an awful form, 

Like some snow-demon hidden there, 
Plunged down the mountain 'mid the storm, 

While shrieks of terror rent the air. 
"An avalanche ! " and with the word 

Each struggling column felt the blow 
Which fell unaimed, which struck unheard, 

And hurled them to the gulf below. 

From out the drifted mass of snow 

A youthful drummer feebly crept, 
For he unharmed received the blow 

While low in death his comrades slept. 
Down deep amid those lifeless forms — 

Alas ! what power could aid him there ? — 
And 'mid the thunder-crash of storms 

He beats his drum in wild despair. 

The muflfled sounds went ringing up 

That awful precipice of snow, 
While o'er despair a gleam of hope 

Rose in the throbbing breast below. 
Ah, how that desperate, vain appeal. 

That touching, pleading, stirring call. 

Went piercing like a blade of steel 
To hearts whose aid was powerless, all ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 

And still he beat the hurried roll, 

Still upward turned his pleading eye, 
P'or hope yet breathed within his soul, 

"They will not leave you here to die." 
With eager gaze he scanned the steep, 

While fearful anguish rent his soul, 
And then more loudly rang the beat 

Of that long, earnest, solemn roll. 

But soon the rapid strains grew less. 

And there without one pitying eye, 
Without one heart to cheer or bless, 

The poor boy lay him down to die. 
His dying strains more faintly rang. 

His wail of hopeless agony. 
Then Alpine blasts his death-dirge sang — 

He'd beaten his last reveille. 



STILL SHE KEEPS ROCKING HIM. 

" Still she keeps rocking him, 

Ever caressing him. 
Brushing the hair from 

His colorless brow. 
Softly they've whispered her, 

" Life has gone out of him," 
Gently she answers, 

" How still he is now ! " 



i66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Still she keeps rocking him, 

As though she would shake from him 
The cold hand of death, 

Like the weights from his eyes ; 
Rocking the clay of him 

While softly the soul of him 
Angels are rocking 

Far up in the skies." 



WHY DOES SHE WEEP FOR HIM? 

(In answer to " Still She Keeps Rocking Him.") 

Why does she weep for him. 

Mourn and lament for him, 
Craving at most 

But a handful of dust .? 
Cold, lifeless clay at best, 

Cold on her yearning breast, 
Lost is her treasure, 

But where is her trust > 

Let her not cling to him. 

Striving to fling from him 
Death's chilly hand. 

With its firm, frozen hold. 
Death has not made the choice, 

'T is but the Shepherd's voice 
Calling the little lamb 

Back to its fold. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 167 

Why, then, go sorrowing, 

All the day borrowing 
Memory's mourning 

And memory's gloom ? 
Rather let hope unite 

With faith's celestial light, 
Casting a halo 

Far over his tomb. 



THE THUNDER BOLT. 

The sky puts on its darkest frown, 
The spiteful storm comes pelting down, 
The lightning smites all hearts with fear, 
In its wild, zig-zag, mad career, 
All nature, wrapped in direst gloom. 
Quakes, as with dread, impending doom. 

Through field of grass, and ripening grain 
The tempest shrills a cry of pain ; 
The opening flowret droops its head. 
The full-blown flowers their petals shed, 
And giant trees are earthward borne. 
With branches cleft, and roots uptorn. 

Stunned, blinded by the lightning's glare. 
As peals of thunder rend the air. 
Birds, beasts and men crouch low with fright. 
And noon-day sun is quenched in night. 
A crash ! a flame ! a cloud of smoke ! 
Some home has felt the liofhtnins: stroke : 



1 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Is it yon mansion on the hill, 
Or that low cot beside the mill ? 
The mansion ! See, from every door 
And window, how the fierce flames pour ! 
And corniced roofs, and frescoed walls 
And marble floors and stately halls 

Are swallowed up in flames and smoke, 
For what can brave the lightning stroke ? 
That mystic torch with ghostly flame 
And fiery speed, what hand can tame ? 
Thus, oft when skies are most serene, 
Jove hurls a bolt, to prove, I ween. 
To thoughtless man, how frail, unreal 
His thread of life, his worldly weal. 



AN AUTUMN IDYL. 

'• From rise of morn till set of sun, 
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run." 
Thus sang the bard whose mellow rhyme 
With dancing wave kept rythmic time, 
As musing, listless, dreamily. 
He wove bright wreaths of poesy. 

Thus on fair Loch Worth's sunny brae, 
I sit and watch, the livelong day, 
The Hudson's limpid waters run, 
Bright jeweled in the noon-day sun, 
Or, tempered by soft twilight's glow, 
In dreamy silence onward flow. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 169 

I've marked the Rhone with hurried pace 
Slip from Geneva's pure embrace, 
Fair as Pygmalion's statue-bride, 
And join the foul Arve, side to side ; 
Yet clear, unsullied as the soul 
Of cloistered nun, its waters roll 
Through fertile vale, and velvet mead. 
With crested wave and quickening speed, 

Till hill and dale and valley fair 

Its shining threads of silver wear ; 

Then through the Jura's rugged side 

It dashes on with foamy tide, 

And bursting forth, broad, boundless, free, 

It leaps into the open sea ! 

And I have marked the Hinter's flow ; 
Dark, glacier-born 'mid Alpine snow. 
It glides through crystal, emerald waves 
Where lovely Constance gently laves 
Her 'orchard-banks, then steals unseen 
Through wooded glades and belts of green : 

Unfettered in its rapid course, 

Still on, with self-asserting force, 

It finds, like men who pant for fame, 

A broader sweep, a prouder name. 

And soon upon its rugged shore 

The thrifty vineyard's purple store 

And castled crag, and lofty pine 

Stand mirrored, — this, the Classic Rhine! 



I70 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But all unmindful, here to-day, 

Of crumbling crag and turret gray, 

I sing the stream whose purling rills 

Trip gayly down my native hills, 

To swell the wave that bears along 

Its gathered wealth through gorge and plain, 

From Adirondack to the main. 

Behold how graceful, buoyant, light, 
As white-winged sea-gulls poised in flight, 
The snowy sails pass, one by one. 
While, from the quiver of the sun, 
Long, silver arrows, glancing bright, 
Cleave Irving's" River of Delight." 

Fair Loch Worth, robed in royal dyes 

Caught from October's brilliant skies, 

I hail thee Queen ! Thy leafy bowers, 

Thy broidered walks, thy woodland flowers. 

Thy blended beauties, manifold. 

Emblazoned with autumnal gold, 

Proclaim thee crowned, with wood-nymphs set 

To weave thy rustic coronet ; 

While Eolus in playful sport 

His zephyrs sends to wake thy court 

And checkered sunshine softly falls 

On mossy floor and vine-clad walls. 

Thus throned by wind and wave caressed, 

Wear proudly then thy flower-starred crest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 

LONGINGS. 

Oh, how lonely this world looks to me ! 

Every hill, every valley, and tree, 
Though robed in a beauty that others may see. 

Has a lonely and sad look to me. 

Oh, how lonely this world looks to me ! 

And I'm eagerly longing to see 
A world where no blight falls on blossom or tree ; 

Oh, how bright will that world seem to me ! 

Oh, how dreary this world looks to me ! 

And I strive mid the darkness to see 
Some promise of light, and if any there be, 

O my God, let it shine upon me ! 

LIFE'S LARGESS. 

In every heart some seed of goodness grows ; 

In every path some bud of beauty springs ; 
In every sky some rainbow-color glows ; 

In every hedge some woodland warbler sings ; 
And he who in life's largess hath no part, 
Hides deep an ivied ruin in his heart ! 

I WISH. 

When storm clouds sweep the sky, 

And feathery flakes of snow 
In ermined beauty lie 

On hill and dale below, 
Oh, then I wish my heart were spotless as the snow. 



172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

When crystal raindrops fall, 

And patter 'gainst the pane, 
And robe with gloomy pall 

The forest, field, and plain, 
Oh, then I wish my heart were pure as falling rain. 

When apple-blossoms fair. 

Float down in fragrant showers. 
And all the scented air 

Is sweet as Eden's bowers, 
Oh, then I wish my heart were stainless as the 
flowers. 

When clouds of pearly white 

Light up the changing sky, 
And bands of silvery light 

In tranquil beauty lie. 
Oh, then I wish my heart were calm as that fair 
sky. 

When morning's early beam 

Wakes all the world anew. 
And glade, and glen, and stream 

Reflect her rosy hue. 
Oh, then I wish my heart could wake in peace 
anew. 

And when the day grown old 

Sinks down in drowsy rest 
And bars of molten gold 

Shut out the purple west. 
Oh, then I wish my heart could claim its promised 
rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 

THE FLOWER-GIRL OF THE 
TUILLERIES. 

All night in the Palais de Jitstice, 

Surrounded by demons of hate, 
The fair Antoinette sat awaiting 

The seal of her terrible fate ; 
Unblenched, with a calmness majestic, 

She waited the seal of her fate. 

At last the mock-trial was over, 

And fixed was her sorrowful doom ; 

The "Austrian " guilty of treason. 
Must die at the hour of noon — 

Fair child of the noble Theresa, 

Ah, why should she perish so soon ! 

And as she went forth to her dungeon 

Unmoved 'mid her pitiless foes, 
A fair, girlish form glided forward 

And placed on her bosom a rose — 
" My sovereign," she cried, " there's one loves thee 

On earth, and God pities thy woes." 

Ah, Trine de la Cour, thy rash folly 

Will bring thee to sorrow, I ween ; 
Already thy destiny's pending. 

The axe of the red guillotine 
Shall cancel thine act of devotion, 

And blot out thy love for the Queen ! 

******** 



174 . MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

All day, till the twilight's deep shadows 
Crept in at the low cottage door, 

He eagerly waited her coming, 
The aged and blind de la Cour, 

For Trine was the light of his being, 
The sunshine that played on his floor. 

Within the Conciergerie dungeon, 

Bowed low on the cold pavement floor, 

That night found her kneeling beside him — 
His long day of darkness was o'er ; 

He woke where an earthly tribunal 
Could doom him to death never more ! 

Till morn thus she kept her lone vigil, 
Unheeding the sentry's slow tread, 

And as the huge doors were unbolted 
She started, and shivered with dread ; 

"O take me not from him," she whispered, 
" O leave me alone with my dead ! " 

Ah, why do her sad eyes thus brighten, 

Has Hope o'er her destiny cast 
One ray to enliven the future ? 

Ves, Trine, thou art rescued at last, 
For Robespierre and Danton have fallen, 

The dark reign of Terror is past ! 

The atheist's idols are shattered, 

Their worshipers writhe in the dust ; 

Arise then, young Christian, and praise Him 
Whom thou didst so fearlessly trust. 

He reigns the Great King of thy nation, 
The God of the faithful and just. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 17s 

THE BEAUTIFUL HOME, 

There's a beautiful home in the land of the blest, 
And its skies are unclouded and clear ; 

Its hills and its valleys in sunshine are dressed, 
Such sunshine as never glows here. 

There a true Friend abides, and his love is so 
pure 

That it " casteth out every fear ; " 
His friendship so lasting, 'twill always endure ; 

Such friendship we cannot know here ! 

That friendship is ours, and that love we may 
claim ; 

And whenever life's pathway is drear. 
If we look to that Friend — if we call on His name, 

He will gladden our hearts, even here. 



ODE TO BURNS. 

The poet ploughman wrote, — long years away, 
That when on earth he closed his mortal stay. 
In that bright world above he'd ask no more 
Than just a Highland welcome to the shore. 

O poet-heart, of poet-souls the king, 
Thine earthly welcome came on tardy wing. 
And cold neglect thy sinking soul oppressed. 
Long ere the bay thy throbbing brow caressed. 



176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A score of years, — and Dumfries marked thy 

worth, 
A hundred years, — and Scotia's bells pealed forth 
In mellow tones, o'er every bank and brae, 
A full-voiced welcome to thy natal day. 

When neath thy "hodden-grey," the kindling fire 
Of genius turned thy ploughshare to a lyre. 
Was this the goal thy longing soul did crave, 
A breath of fame to fan an early grave ? 

Ah, wise, wise world, ye might have been more 

wise. 
Had ye unclosed your sluggish, purblind eyes, 
And looked above, vyhen oft ye groped below : 
Then, had ye learned to rescue want from woe, 

To spy the grain of gold hid in the dross. 

To cull the silken thread from worthless floss ; 

To rank the grand designer o'er the lout 

Whose clumsy moil scarce brings the pattern out. 

Poetic healer, born at Nature's call, 
God gave thee power to touch the wounds of all ; 
For every mood, for every phase of thought 
That frets or glads the soul, thy muse hath 
wrought 

A melody to soften and to cheer. 
With grace " nae found in book, nae found in lear ;" 
And as some flower in spring lifts up its head 
Above the frozen blanket of its bed, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 

So, 'mid a stubborn soil and barren earth, 
Thy quickened fancies struggled into birth. 
Though oft thy flowret-buds with hearts of snow, 
Burst crimson-tipped with passion's heated glow, 

F'ull oft, exhaled they too, their sweetest breath, 
When crushed by storm that threatened blight 

and death. 
In Mossgiel's frosty field, thy share upturned 
The "bonnie gem " a prouder bard had spurned. 

And that "wee sleeket-beast wi' tim'rous breast" 
Despoiled by thee of her snug, leafy nest. 
Inspired thy tender heart's most plaintive cry 
That its " puir, stibble cell " should ruined lie. 

So hapless " Maillie," tethered in her woe. 
Caused thy full breast with grief to overflow. 
And ever didst thou bend with pitying ear. 
The cry of want, the plaint of woe to hear ; 

And thy impulsive soul, oft stained with wrong. 
Still for the right gushed forth in fount of song. 
Thy magic lyrics, in chaste language dressed. 
To charm the maid, or fire the patriot's breast. 

Waft to the weary brain a fresh delight. 
As evening zephyrs fan the brow of night ; 
Thy scathing satires hiss with rhythmic gall. 
And, " Holy Willie " seethes above them all. 

Thy dirges, on the trembling air up-borne, 
Re-echo sadly " Man was made to mourn," 
And thou didst mourn and sob thy soul away 
For her, thy " star, with ever less'ning ray." 



178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Aye, thou couldst mourn the loss of sterling worth, 
And honest tears, and bitter plaints pour fortli, 
And call the "hills and cliffs, and briery dens, 
Wi' their black burnies wimplin' down the glens," 

To join the wail, and cry '• He's frae us torn. 
He's gane, he's gane, and Nature's sel' shall 

mourn." 
Thy pastorals, that mirror to the eye 
Transcendent beauties of earth, sea, and sky. 

Like Standfield's rocks, like Turner's foam- 

troughed seas. 
Exalt and thrill, astonish, soothe and please. 
How sweetly drawn, thy clay-built cottage home, 
Whence passion's glare lured thy rash feet to 

roam, 

And learn that life was " but a galling load 

Along a rough, a hard and weary road." 

How quaintly drawn, the hearthstane bright and 

warm. 
The straw-thatched roof secure from blast, and 

storm ; 

The text, " selected wi' judicious care," 

The deep-toned hymn, the solemn evening prayer ; 

The father's admonition " to obey 

The master's rule, and ne'er to jauk or play ; " 

The thrifty wife, who to her life-work true, 
" Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new," 
Love, faith, and truth that taught thy cheek to glow 
With honest scorn at sierht of "tinsel show." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 

child of passion, swayed by grief and mirth, 
Wild was the soil that gave thy fancies birth, 
Twin-born there sprang, at thy swift, rash behest, 

1 he dainty idyl and the ribald jest ; 

The keen burlesque, the penitential prayer. 

Remorse's waij, the pregnant " Holy Fair •'" 

The hymn devout, the bitter, black'ning curse, 

Made doubly black by thy invective verse. 

And yet thou couldst a charity unfold 

In notes that might be set to staves of gold ; 

So thou couldst point, in poesy divine, 

The sure safe path, of the unerring line, 

And, from thine own mishaps, the moral draw 

That none may rise but by the "plummet's law" 

Wrecked, tempest-tossed on life's careering wave 

Thy faith still plead the Master's power to save. 

And thou Shalt live, thy stifled cry for fame 

Is heard, and high above the princely name 

Of royal line stands "Burns,".and wind and wave 

Waft far and wide the glory thou didst crave. 

Behold across the seas, at Art's command, 

Far far from thy loved Scotia's loch-gemmed land. 

Mid birds and blossoms, such companions, boon, 

As shared thy songs upon the banks of Doon, 

Thy princely form, in peasant garb arrayed. 

In breeks, in bonnet, and in Highland plaid. 

Shall stand in grace and beauty, to attest 

Thy magic power to thrill the world's great breast ! 



i8o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And while each Scottish son with pride surveys 
Thy matchless semblance,* may his warmest 

praise 
To Calverley's deft hand be freely given, 
The hand whose skill, — the gift divine of Heaven, 

Hath shaped in beauty and in charming grace 
Thy noble form, thine earnest, soul-lit face, 
That speaks, through bronze and granite, deep in- 
wrought. 
The proud fulfillment of thy yearning thought. 



TWO LETTERS. 

I pondered in sadness and sore desolation, 

My heart was as heavy as heavy could be ; 
When the old iron screech-owl flew in at the sta- 
tion 
And bore 'neath his pinions a letter for me ; 
A right welcome letter, — 
I'll ask nothing better 
Than this welcome letter from over the sea ! 

"Come back." — Ah, how swiftly the deep desola- 
tion 
That shrouded my spirit, departed from me ! 

Then the old iron screch-owl flew out at the sta- 
tion, 



* In allusion to the statue of the Poet in Washington Park, 
Albany, N. Y. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. i8i 

And bore 'neath his pinions, this message from 
me : — 
" I come." — Now what better 
Than this speedy letter 
Could I have sent back to my love o'er the sea ? 



DEAD MAN'S ISLAND. 

[For sixty-five years Silas Town lay buried on this island, 
with no stone to mark his resting-place. It was not till July 
4, 1871, that a monument was erected, as a token of respect, 
to the memory of a soldier and a scout in the Army of Wash- 
ington.] 

Where flows the Little Salmon swiftly on 

In haste to meet Ontario's embrace, 

A spot of green, a wave-set emerald gem, 

As fair as ever in the Trosachs shone, 

Sits mirrored in its fair pellucid stream. 

And here, a monument like some tall ghost, 

Up-rises mid a growth of chestnut trees. 

Whose spreading boughs half hide the slender 

shaft 
On which is carved the name of Silas Town. 

Now, as our light canoes salute the shore. 

The fragrance of wild violets is borne 

To bid us welcome to this calm retreat. 

The graveled banks with sedge and rushes teem. 

And in the early spring, the scented leaves 

Of pink arbutus trail along the ground, 

And fill the air with delicate perfume. 



i82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A strange, lone man, to secret service pledged, 
A sort of Leather Stocking, yet in books 
Unnamed, was he, the tenant of this isle. 
He asked for no reward, he sought not fame, 
He craved no title, to no rank aspired, 
But toiled in secret for his country's good. 
Was he a hero } History forgot 
To write his name among her honored dead. 

When one beholds the blossoms or the fruit 
Of some majestic tree, stops he to think 
Of those two secret agents hid away, — 
The limpid sap— the life-blood of the tree — 
And, buried out of sight, the humble roots .-' 
Yet, were these factors to withdraw their aid. 
The monarch of the wood must stand discrowned ! 

When bold Burgoyne moved forward from St. 

John's 
And, pressing southward, turned toward Crown 

Point, 
Securing in his march the proud control 
Of lake, and river, and contested post ; 
This humble scout was set to mark his course. 
To calculate his numbers and his strength. 
To note the sudden halt, the swift deploy, 
So that his boasted strategy in war 
Be turned to sad disaster and defeat. 
The faithful spy, with eye and ear alert, 
Lest to the savage foe he fall a prey 
Before his sacred mission be fulfilled, 
Soon gave to Stark and Gates the needful clew 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 

That served in cutting off the last retreat, 
And placed within their grasp the royal prize. 

All honor to the heroes, laurel-crowned, 
Whose names are gilded on the roll of fame ; 
But let no grudging hand to-day withhold 
A tardy tribute, laid with reverent care 
Upon the humble grave of him who dwelt 
Apart from human sympathy and love. 
To win for generations yet unborn, 
The crowning glory of a nation's life. 

Beyond the island's rim, across the stream, 
A little hamlet nestles 'mong the trees. 
And near it, a small plot of ground, thick set 
With head-stones. Once it held a single, grave. 
And on its low, white tablet, one might read : 
" Lenora Hartvvell, aged nineteen years." 

As Enoch Arden played with Annie Lee 
" Among the waste and lumber of the shore," 
So Silas Town, in early boyhood days 
Played with this " pretty damsel of the port," 
Until the two grew up, approved by all 
To be the sharer of each other's fate. 

But lovers' quarrels through all circles run. 
And jealousy, of love the secret foe, 
Estranged the two, and pride held fast the door 
That closed between them. Silas went to sea. 
And in a year, returned to find a grave 
New-made, within the grassy plot of ground 
That joined to Nora's home. He turned away. 



1 84 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And passed his bitter hour as hopelessly 

As did the Pathfinder, when he renounced 

The new-born light that Mabel Dunham's love 

Had shed athwart his lonely way ; and like 

The Leather Stocking, turned with purpose new. 

In noble abnegation of himself, 

To serve his country in her hour of need. 

And sorrow made him strong. The foe without, 
The foe within, he bravely faced and fought ; 
And when his work was done, he sought this isle. 
And here in solitude his years were passed. 
The friendly Indians, his only guests. 
Supplied his wants, which hermit-like, were few, 
And when his hour was come, he laid him down 
To die, as he had lived, alone. 'Tis said 
That here, two snowy flowers, with crimson lip, 
And fragrant breath are found. Their counter- 
parts 
Ne'er seen in all the region roundabout. 
Excepting two twin blossoms on the grave 
Of Nora Hartwell, yonder in the grove ! 
Thus, each new spring, these snowy buds unfold. 
With crimson lips renewing that sweet pledge 
Of youthful love and constancy of soul 
That time nor space nor death can e'er destroy^ 



THE DOWN-GRADE. 

The older we git, it seems, somehow er uther. 
The years they jes' pile right on top o' one nuther ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 

And if I may ventur' to speak in a figger, 

To give my idees what the poets call vigger, 

I feel like a tree that is swingin' and swayin' 

In make-believe growth.with its roots all decayin' ; 

But 'taint no use sighin', and 'taint no use frettin', 

No sun ever riz without reachin' its settin'. 

The up-hill o' life, as you climb it, grows higher, 
But when you're on top, then the bottom seems 

nigher ; 
And like a train, plannin' a railroad disaster, 
The strides o' the years they grow longer and 

faster. 
Till on the down-grade, I discover I'm winnin' 
The very same p'int where I hed my beginnin' ! 



A CONTRAST. 

You rove 'mid the beauties of roseate bowers, 
And smile at the future undimmed by a cloud ; 

In life's field of sunshine fringed round with 
bright flowers. 
No wonder you see not the pall nor the shroud. 

I roam through the shades of perennial night, 
My soul clad in mourning, in sorrow and tears, 

A wilderness-world, without comfort or light, 
Where dry, withered leaves hide the graves of 
the years. 



1 86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

You stand 'neath the azure of youth's glowing 
sky, 
While rainbows of hope their bright colors un- 
fold ; 
You laugh as the fleet-winged years hurry by, 
Nor dream that their number erelong will be 
told; 

I stand out alone 'neath the beat of the rain, 
And see all my long-cherished fancies depart, 

With never a new thought to brighten my brain, 
With never a new hope to gladden my heart. 

The sweet voice of friendship, of solace and love, 
Makes music around you to soothe every care ; 

You reach not for blessings, they fall from above ; 
No wonder you cling to a world that's so fair ! 

I stretch out my arms as I long to infold 

The forms that once blessed me with friendship 
and trust ; 

But ah, cruel phantoms, ye mock my sad soul, 
Ye flit, and I clasp but a handful of dust. 

But let me not murmur, the hand is divine 
That deals out my portion of bitterness here ; 

O heart sorely chastened, cease, cease to repine, 
For now He is nearest with comfort and cheer ! 

come, gentle spirit, come heavenly dove, 

And fold thy soft wings o'er this world-wearied 
breast ; 

1 bless the kind hand that chastiseth in love — 

My God and my fortress, my refuge and rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 187 

IN PALMER'S STUDIO. 

(A Poet's Tribute to Albany's Renowned Sculptor, Erastus 
D. Palmer.) 

Was Daedalus a myth, as poets sing, 
Who fled from Minos on a waxen wing t 
Ah, surely no. The Hindu faith reveals 
Metempsychosis turning life's swift wheels ; 
And, granting this, then Art, departing, gives 
New life to Art, and Daedalus still lives. 

Yea, when the artist's soul new birth receives. 

Its crumbling chrysalid it soaring leaves, 

And seeks a truer, higher aim, I trow. 

Since " New life reaps what the old life did sow." 

O Sculpture, queen of all the plastic arts, 
What varied charms thy subtle skill imparts ! 
These silent groups, in grace and beauty wrought, 
Reveal the artist's introspective thought. 
A mass of unshaped clay conceals for him 
The wavy tress, the plump and rounded limb 
Of rosy childhood, — the severe and grand 
Primeval sinew of the savage hand ; 
The statesman's massive brow, — the shell-like lid 
Neath which the Peri's sleeping eye is hid ; 
Sweet Morn and Eve, on fairy pinions sent, 
Faith, looking to the cross in calm content ; 
The hidden arrow of the wily foe ; 
The fair White Captive, agonized with woe ; 
The Little Peasant's earnest questioning face, 
A woodland nymph in wild unstudied grace ! 



1 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Behold her stand, in mute, transfixed surprise, 
With grief-drooped lid and sad, appealing eyes, 
As, pierced with sorrow at her fruitless quest, 
She holds with careful hands an empty nest. 
Alas, my little maid, that those bright things 
Our trusting hearts hold first, should first take 
wings ! 

O gifted one, that from dull, lifeless clay 

Canst make so real the scenes of yesterday. 

Dramatic passion and ecstatic joy 

Thy fancy and thy skill alike employ ; 

For while our Little Peasant weeps her loss 

An Indian Maiden finds the blessed cross ! 

And as her darkened soul new light receives, 

Its tender radiance a halo weaves 

That crowns her brow and floods her form with 

light. 
As morning sunbeams rend the veil of night. 
No touch of nature to thy sense is lost, — 
The rounded dew-drop and the ghostly frost. 
The rough, hard stubble and the opening flower 
Thy chisel graves with equal grace and power. 

A Hemans sang — all honor to her name, 
The Pilgrims' woes, and won immortal fame ; 
A Weir's deft pencil limned the little band 
Self-exiled, hasting from Delft-Haven's strand ; 
But here is presence, life-like, strangely real, 
No poet's dream, no painter's high ideal ; 
Here courage battles with grim want and woe. 
Defies the snarling wolf, the skulking foe, — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 189 

Rare symbols these of what the sculptor's skill 
And glowing fancy may create at will. 

Thus at each turn, with graphic stroke enwrought, 
The pliant marble breathes his pregnant thought. 
His fine detail, Lysippus well might praise, 
As soul-absorbed he copies nature's ways : 
From nature's perfect plan he never swerves. 
But cleaves the graceful slopes, the inward curves 
Of Beauty's mould, as wrought Praxiteles 
Fair Phryne's form the sensuous eye to please. 

And while he toils with Phidian zeal, he asks 
" What meed of men shall cheer me at my tasks } 
Through what bold, final stroke shall come suc- 
cess, 
What Pericles shall crown, what patron bless } " 
Ah, harder than the granite's ledge-locked form 
Is that cold breast that Genius fails to warm ! 
Yet lagging Fame too oft withholds her bays 
Till eye and ear are deadened to her praise. 
But ever in the poet's yearning heart 
Thou'lt live, bay-crowned, the Trinity of Art. 



TO A NORTHERN ROBIN. 

(Written at Natchez, Miss.) 

I have listened to thy carol and each note my be- 
ing thrills, 

For they mind me of the bird-songs of my own, 
dear, native hills ; 



iQO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Of the bird-songs in the forest, where the checkered 

sunshine plays 
With the leaflet and the floweret, in the long, 

bright summer days. 

Now those hills are bleak and barren, for Old 
Winter holds his reign. 

And he's spread a snowy mantle over every hill 
and plain, 

And the silvery rills and streamlets making music 
through the land, 

He has bound in icy fetters with a stern, relent- 
less hand. 

He has breathed upon the forest and the leaves 

have left the bough. 
For his frozen breath has chilled them and they're 

faded, withered, now, 
While the choir of sylvan songsters that enlivened 

glen and glade. 
Will no longer charm the wood-nymphs with the 

music that they made. 

Pretty warbler — thou'rt a stranger, and lil<e me 
hast sought a home 

In this bright and sunny region where the storm- 
king dares not come ; 

Let us sing and make glad music for the welcome 
we have met. 

And the songs which breathe of home-land, be un- 
minsrled with regret. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 191 

HOMELESS. 
December's blasts blew wild without, 

A storm of wind and sleet ; 
God pity all on such a night 

Whose homes are in the street ! 
God pity all on such a night 

Where'er their feet may roam, 
Whose hearts are pining for the joys 
- Of earth's bright, happy home ! 

Before a stately mansion knelt 

A frail and shivering form. 
Imploring aid to shield her from 

The cold arms of the storm ; 
But soon a loud and angry voice, 

In harsh, discordant tone, 
With threats and curses loudly raved, 

And bade the wretch begone. 

Once more the chilled limbs staggered on, 

Half-crazed, half-clad, — alone, 
And then that wild and pleading face 

Grew pallid as the stone 
On which it lay in hopeless woe, 

And thus beneath the storm 
Death wrapped a winding-sheet of snow 

Around a frozen form. 

With gentle hand they raised her from 

Her cold and icy bed — 
Alas, a coffin wrought of gold 

Is nothing to the dead ! 



192 MISCELLANEOUS POEM. 

Too late did Charity extend 

The boon she might have given ; 

That starving heart had found at last 
A rest and home in heaven. 



A LESSON. 

A corn-stalk glanced down at some grasses, 

And said in an arrogant tone, 
I wish that my fawning relations 

Would move off and leave me alone. 

Just see how they mix with the clovers. 
And nod at their red and white crests ; 

And even the poor silly daisies 

They're ready to welcome as guests ! 

No wonder each morn when they waken, 
Their eyelids are heavy with tears. 

Through envy of my rustling raiment. 
And the gold drops that shine in my ears. 

'Tis true, we've a common venation ; 

But that needs not addle their brains ; 
They're born to a lowly position. 

There's no blood of mine in their veins. 

With that she threw back her silk tassels, 
And left them to wave in the breeze, 

Nor took further note of the grasses 
That timidly crouched at her knees. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 193 

In Autumn, a reaper discovered 

The corn-husk all withered and dried, 

So he stripped off her bright golden ear-drops, 
And ruthlessly cast her aside ; 

And when the next Spring's glowing sunshine 
Caused Nature her white robe to doff. 

And the earth showed a few snowy patches, 
Like a cake with the frosting picked off, 

I said of the pale, slender fingers 

That the roots of the grasses sent forth, 

Ah, surely, the proud are made stubble. 
And the meek shall inherit the earth ! 



MY REAL ESTATE. 

I'm not purse-proud, nor do I meet, 
With head erect and glance of scorn, 

My humble neighbor in the street — 
An honest man, but lowly born, 

Who unlike me no gains may rate 

By ownership of real estate. 

My title's good — " to have and hold," 
The deed reads thus, and " to my heirs 

And assigns in fee simple " — sold 
To me and mine forever ; dares 

Then any man presume to prate 
Of doubts concerning my estate ? 



194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My property's not gone to waste, 

For large improvements I have made ; 

Two costly mansions reared with taste, 

And handsome grounds and pleasant shade 

Charm all alike, both poor and great, 

Who loiter near my grand estate. 

O'er marble fronts — Italian stone — 
The clustered ivy creeps and clings. 

While just above, with plaintive tone, 
A robin in the willow sings ; 

Her song but bids me curse my fate • 

For ownership of such estate ! 

Amid the willow's boughs is hid 

Her little nest securely made. 
And never 'neath a cofifin-lid . 

Has she a single birdling laid, 
Nor mourns she wildly for her mate 
To share with her life's bright estate. 

Nor beats she madly with her wing 

Against a stony marble door, 
That yields no bolt, nor bar, nor spring — 

Closed, closed to her for evermore ; 
My God ! why did a cruel fate 
Bequeath to me such sad estate ? 

Look up, my soul, thy faith renew. 
Nor longer o'er thy sorrow brood ; 

This promise holds forever true — 
All things together work for good 

To them who love the Lord, and wait 

To share with him his rich estate. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 195 

A few more griefs, a few more tears, 
Then be this precious promise claimed ; 

Though slowly drag the lengthened years 
Of loneliness that ne'er was named, 

I know that heavenly mansions wait 

The crowned heirs to Christ's estate. 



TWILIGHT IN WASHINGTON PARK. 
I sit alone, at twilight, in the park, 

And feel night's mantle wrap me, fold on fold ; 
I watch the fire-fly's evanescent spark, 
And as the shadows deepen, I remark 

The dandelion hide away her gold. 

A molten globe seems hanging in the West 
Above the boughs that fringe the crimson sky, 

And sinks at last, to leave the world at rest ; 

The birds have sought their homes, each little nest 
Well guarded by the mother's watchful eye. 

I silent sit, and watch the motley train 

That treads these bordered walks, these wind- 
ing ways ; 
Souls foul with sin, and souls without a stain. 
Eyes pleasure-lit, and faces blanched with pain 
Pass swiftly on, lost in the deepening haze. 

I love this ghostly twilight that appears 
Film-like upon the dying orb of day ; 
I love the cricket's note that soothes and cheers 
The pensive earth, o'erspread with dewy tears, 
As if she wept the sun's departing ray. 



196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Oh, for the blessed twilight of that day 

When life's swift race shall reach its restful 
close ! 
When, like a child grown weary of its play, 
We'll cross the dear home threshold, there to lay 
The hidden, heavy burden of our woes. 

EVERY DAY. 

How high the hill to which I fain would climb ! 

The very topmost height I hoped to gain, 
And still the long-sought summit towers sublime, 

Towers 'mid the clouds and I look up in vain. 

Look from the valley where my course began, 
Look in an eager, wistful, longing way, 

Each chance and counter-chance alike to scan, 
Still resting where I rested yesterday. 

Oh, how I yearn to rise above the ills — 

The ills that nobler minds can never know — 

For lo ! a little breeze may fret the rills 

That plays unheeded o'er great ocean's flow ! 

I read a poet's newest thought, and then 
What wild desires my longing heart assail, 

To soar in name above my fellow-men, 

The highest pinnacle of Thought to scale ! 

But helpless all to feed these fierce desires, 

My soul cries out in agony untold ; 
I seem to be encaged by prison wires, 

While just outside is all I seek to hold. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 197 

Yet when the Warden Death would set me free, 
The fiery drops within my hot veins freeze, 

And though my life seems but a mockery, 
I shake with terror at his clanking keys. 

How worse than vain for any common weed 
To crave the rose's perfumed, trimson blush, 

Or for the swallow, perched upon a reed, 
To ape the carol of a warbling thrush ! 

Or that a rough, brown gourd should loud bewail 
That it had not the melon's purple ring, 

Or that the slimy, slow-paced, plodding snail 
Should claim the humming-bird's swift, giddy 
wing ! 

The bird, the fruit, and insect all perform 
Their given mission in their given way, 

The flower and weed their destined spheres adorn, 
And shall I be less sensible than they ? 

Go, false Ambition, from my dreaming brain, 
Come, sweet Contentment, to my heart and 
home. 

And never let the Siren's voice again 

Tempt me from Duty's open path to roam. 



LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 

May thy life-sheet be as spotless 
As the page on which I write. 

May each line of thought be stainless, 
As the early sunbeam's light ; 



198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

May thy soul be virtue's mirror, 
Clear and pure as heaven's blue, 

May the star that guides thy future, 
Lead thee ever to the True ; 

May each name in thy heart's album 
Be transcribed with thine, and placed 

In the Book of Life eternal 
Nevermore to be effaced. 



CRYPTOGAMIA. 

The rocks away up on the hillside, 
To jagged proportions had grown. 

Because the white cheeks of the snow drifts 
Were wasted away to the bone. 

For winter, like Lear in his dotage, 
In soft robe of ermine lay down, 

And gave unto Spring, his fair daughter, 
His icicle sceptre and crown. 

But she, with true regal displeasure. 
Her royal endowments dashed down, 

And chose for her sceptre a sunbeam. 
And jeweled with rain drops her crown. 

And that's why the rocks on the hillside 
To jagged proportions had grown, 

And that's why the cheeks of the snow drifts 
Were wasted away to the bone. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 199 

But when the fair lichens and mosses 

A view of the bare ledges caught, 
Right nimbly, with bright, busy fingers, 

A robe of soft velvet they wrought. 

A mixed robe of green and of yellow, 

Bespangled with purple and red, 
And o'er the bare backs of the ledges 

Their ready-wrought mantle they spread. 

And the lady-fern gave of her treasure, 

A fringe that were fit for a queen. 
And the club-moss and ground-pine appended 

Their bright, showy tassels of green. 

And even the Quaker-like mushroom 

On tiptoe stood up on his stool. 
And spread his broad brim a bit wider. 

To keep the air pleasant and cool. 

A flower of the trailing arbutus 

Lay fainting in noontide's broad blaze. 

Her carmine-tipped lips sadly paling, 
And parched by the sun's fiery rays ; 

A larch tree, whose arms outward spreading 

Beneath, a green bower had made, 
Looked down at the poor, drooping flow'ret 

And gathered her into his shade. 

Then setting his leaves for the dew drops. 

He gathered a plentiful shower. 
And dropped them right softly and gently 

Upon the white face of the flower. 



200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And \o ! the next morn, a sweet perfume 

Stole up from the larch's green bower, 
A silent and fragrant thanksgiving 

From out the red lips of the flower. 
******* 
O you who with wealth are still beggared. 

Because you are childless and lone, 
Remember the backs of the ledges 

By fiowerless lichens o'ergrown. 

Forget not the dying arbutus, 

The larch's kind shadow and dew ; 

Oh ! surely if such have a mission, 
There must be love-labor for you. 

Some poor, naked back needs a mantle, 
Which your wealth and leisure may give 

Some faint, hungry heart craves a morsel. 
Oh, nourish it, bid it to live. 

Wherever, on life's dusty highway 

The thin hands of want stretch to you, 

Turn not from your God-given mission. 
But Oh ! to your life-ivork be true. 



A CAROL. 

The day is short, the night is long, 
Thus sang one of the feathered throng, 
And I took up his rippling song 
And wove it into verse ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And this is what he sang to me 
From his green bower in the tree : — 
" Bad luck, however bad it be, 
May be a trifle worse. 

" All have their day, each has his ' fling,' 
When he can hop, and swirl, and swing. 
And when I droop my speed-spent wing, 

I'll strive my merry best 
To ring out on the trembling air, 
A melody so free from care 
That all who hear my lay shall share 

The peace that fills my breast. 

" I will not mope and fold my wing. 
Because, perchance, it lacks the spring 
Or speed that youth and vigor bring ; 

But through the whole day long, 
My notes in warbling praise shall rise 
To Him, the great, the good, the wise, 
Who taught me through the azure skies 

To wing my way in song." 

The day is short, the night is long. 
Then let the sweetest memories throng 
To make the burden of life's song 

Replete with calm content ; 
Let it resound with notes of cheer, 
Unchoked by grief, unchecked by fear, 
As earth recedes, and heaven draws near, 

And life and love are blent. 



202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

AN INCIDENT. 

(A mother who was permitted to enter the prison cell of 
her son begged that she might remain and share his punish- 
ment, confessing with tears and lamentations that she had 
never taught him how to praj.) 

Don't cry so, Tom, thou shalt not bear 

The blame and punishment alone ; 
Thy mother begs one-half to share. 

Here, kneeling on this floor of stone. 

Nay, do not speak, but hear it all, 

I must confess — or I go mad. 
Right here within this prison wall. 

The wrong that I have done thee, lad. 

I never taught thy lips to pray, 

I never taught thy knees to bow. 
And to thy Heavenly Father say, 

" Lord, keep me safe from evil now." 

And when the red wine sparkled bright, 

I did not hurl the cup away ; 
No felon's cell were thine to-night. 

Had I but taught thee then to pray. 

And when at midnight, on the way 

To some low den, I marked thy track ; 

I did not kneel with thee, and pray 

That God would bring the wanderer back. 

So let me share thy clanking chain, 

And through the night and through the day, 

I'll plead — oh, shall I plead in vain ? 
That God will teach thee how to pray. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

We live to learn, — we learn to live, 
E'en when the well-springs of each joy 

No longer their sweet waters give. 
To make life glad without alloy. 

We hazard all when Love is kind, 

vSo full, so perfect is our faith ; 
And weep in silence when we find 

Our idol but a monster wraith. 

For I have known, or thought I knew 
A friend of peerless heart and mind, 

But now I hold the adage true 
" A trusty friend is hard to find." 

And I have known, or thought I knew 

True happiness beneath the sun. 
But ah, what phantoms we pursue, 

And how they vanish, one by one ! 



THE HEN WITH ONE CHICK, 

A-near the barn, with due regard 

To size, the spot selected 
For Farmer Thrifty's poultry-yard 

Was warm and well protected. 

And, though his fowls were clumsy things. 

And fat from overfeeding. 
They'd proudly flap their ugly wings 

And crow of their hi^h breedins-. 



204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But just outside, in meager plight, 

Unsheltered and unguarded, 
A poor, lone hen caught with delight 

The bits which they discarded ; 

And by her side a scrawny chick, 

A pink-eyed, puny peeper. 
That she stroked gently with her beak, 

Then scratched for crumbs the deeper. 

And, though she sought with hungry bill 

Each fruitful spot to pick in, 
No morsel did she taste until 

She'd first supplied her chicken. 

One day the Storm King blew a blast 
That made the boldest shiver. 

And froze with fear the rippling laugh 
That dimpled o'er the river. 

The frightened fowls, from near and far, 
A sheltered screen were seeking, 

For Nature's doors seemed all ajar. 
And every hinge a-creaking. 

The poor, lone hen looked here and there, 
And stretched her neck and listened 

And something very like a tear 
Within her sad eye glistened. 

Then, as the wind raved loud and high, 
She clucked and croaked together. 

As if to say, " Where shall we hie 
To shield us from the weather ? " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 205 

Now, moved with pity past her will 

At such a sad exposure, 
A Bantam mother thrust her bill 

Outside the fenced inclosure. 

And, calling, said, " Poor creature, though 

I pity your condition. 
My family are bred, you know, 

In very high position ; 

But, out of charity, I'll dare, 

To keep you both from begging, 
To take your chick and let it share 

My wings and soft, warm legging 

Ttie same as my own precious brood. 

And thus I'll feed and rear it, 
But you elsewhere must seek your food, 

And never more come near it." 

Beneath her wings, close to her breast, 

She gathered up her treasure, 
And ruffling to her very crest, 

Thus cackled her displeasure : 

" Your charity is dearly bought 

When I my heart must smother. 
And let my only child be taught 

To disrespect its mother. 

Since you despise the poor and frail 

Because of their position, 
Your pity never can avail 

To better their condition. 



2o6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

No, no ; I'll search through glade and glen, 
There'll be some spot to pick in, 

And 't is a poor and worthless hen 
That can't scratch for one chicken." 



A FRAGMENT. 

A leafless tree sways to and fro 

Before my cottage door to-day. 
Its rifled finery, heaped below. 

Is marred with mildew and decay ; 
A discontented sparrow swirls 

Among the branches dry and bare, 
That gleam with trembling crystal pearls 

Wrought by some raindrops frozen there. 

I watched this stately tree in spring, 

And saw each baby-leaf unfold ; 
I saw it don its summer sheen. 

And saw it browned with autumn's gold ; 
But now that wintry winds sweep by, 

And leave it desolate and bare, 
I say 'tis better far to die 

Than stand storm-swept in mute despair ! 

To die — for oft the boon of death 

Is better than the gift of life. 
The one is but a passing breath, 

The other, years of sin and strife. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207 

I, too, wear pearls, — not frozen gems, 
But scalding drops that burn and sear 

My furrowed cheek. The withered stems 
Of yonder tree, another year, 

Will smile in beauty, and again 

A baby-leaf, with tender hue, 
Will stir the chilled blood in each vein, 

And waken it to life anew. 
But never more shall come to me 

The joy that made this world so fair — 
Since thou art fled, O Constancy, * 

I stand storm-swept in mute despair. 



DEATH OF TASSO. 

" The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned 
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browxing. 

St. Onofrio's wrapt in gloom, 

And soft each footstep falls, 
While ghostly shadows play upon 

Her stern and dusky walls ; 
And all night long her holy friars 
Have prayed with trust that never tires. 

And here secure from worldly blast, 

From worldly care and thought, 
Italia's poet finds at last 

The rest his soul hath sought ; 
And while he lists the chanting friars 
He hears the tone of heavenly lyres ! 



2o8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The morning dawns — no golden beam 

An entrance finds within ; 
It matters not, the taper's gleam 

Sheds light enough for him ; 
He sleeps in peace, while to his breast 
The crucifix is closely pressed. 

That lofty spirit wont to soar 

O'er high, celestial ground, 
St. Anne's dark dungeon-walls no more 

May weigh with sorrow down ; 
No more he'll weep in wild despair 
His seven years of anguish there. 

All joy, all hope, all love of life 

Were lost to him ; for lo, 
The -world's ingratitude and strife 

Had willed it should be so ; 
And what were e'en a happier lot 
If Leonora shared it not ? 

O faithful and forgiving heart, 

No mortal ere hast borne 
Such grievous wrong, such cruel smart, 

With less of hate and scorn ; 
Thou wast of those whose lyres are given 
To strike on earth the notes of heaven ! 

Argantes' foul ingratitude. 

In piercing Dudon's breast 
With falchion that his prince bestowed, 

No sharper sting possessed 
Than false Alphonso's venomed steel. 
Which opened wounds no art could heal. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 209 

Of Godfrey's deeds and noble end 

In story thou hast wrought 
Poetic wreaths, where sweetly blend 

The fairest flowers of thought ; 
The laurel wreath entwined for thee 
Withers before such poesy ! 

Clarinda's acts of valor done, 

Herminia's bashful love, 
Rinaldo's conquest bravely won, 

Aladdin's swift remove, 
The Christian's prayer, the pagan's curse 
Thou'st woven too in matchless verse. 

Thy spirit-eyes now view at last 

The New Jerusalem, 
The city whence our Savior passed 

From 'neath the scourge of men ; 
Where pagan feet shall ne'er invade 
The temple which our God hath made. 

The laurel crown twined for thy brow 

Now rests upon thy bier ; 
Ah, little need of garlands now 

Hast thou in yon bright sphere. 
Thou hast a crown more bright, I ween, 
Than e'er was worn by Egypt's queen ! 



FRIENDSHIP — WHAT IS IT? 
It is not a shadow, a vapor, a breath, 
'Tis wholly immortal and cannot know death ; 



2IO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

It is not a sunbeam that fades with the day, 

It is not a vision that glideth away ; 

'Tis faithful, 'tis patient, 'tis cautious, 'tis wise, 

'Tis honest in all things, it scorns all disguise ; 

It paints every virtue, it hides all defects. 

It pardons all errors, o'erlooks all neglects ; 

Unselfish, most noble, most gen'rous, most just. 

Believing, confiding, delighting to trust ; 

Deep, tender in feeling, in sympathy strong, 

Commending the right and forgiving the wrong ; 

Most ardent, most active in trial and need, 

True, earnest, transparent in thought, word, and 

deed ; 
A stranger to flattery, falsehood, and art. 
Its destiny, heaven ; its earth-home, the heart. 

DOWN BY THE SEA. 
Down by the sea, held in fashion's strong tether, 
Poor martyrs to style, how they huddle together. 
Hearts, heavy as lead, and heads, light as a feather. 

Ah, me! 
What dresses, what laces, what forms and what faces 
Whereon are no traces of grief that lies deep 

As the sea ! 

Down by the sea-side, gay people are thronging. 
Discarding home-comforts for which they are long- 
ing, 
To live in their trunks — which a score are near 
pawning 

For debt. 



MISCEL LANEO US POEMS. 2 1 1 

What flattering, lying, what simpering, sighing, 
What envying, vieing, what selling and buying 
Of hearts that for long years have been marked 
" To let ! " 

Down by the sea-side, where diamonds are gleam- 
ing, 

Where ribbons and ringlets in union are streaming, 

Where smiles most bewitching and bright eyes arc 
beaming 

On all. 

What whispers, what glances, what day-dreams, 
what fancies. 

What life-like romances, what freedom, 
What thrall ! 



Down by the sea, where all ages and station 
To Terpsichore bow in profound adoration, 
Where swift-flying feet seek no other foundation 

Than air, 
What graceful confusion, what charming delusion, 
What studied seclusion of true thoughts 

Are there ! 

Down by the sea-side, where dash the wild billows. 
Where wave after wave makes the mermaid's 

white pillows, 
Where tall masts bow low as the boughs of the 

willows. 

When old Neptune raves, 



212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

What strange spell comes o'er us, an ocean before 

us, 
Its music a chorus — a wild, broken chorus 
Of those who are sleeping beneath 
Its cold waves ! 



THE OLD BELL. 

" The old Kingsboro Bell was donated to that church by 
Daniel Potter, in 1822. One cold, rainy day in December, 
1866, it was heard to crack, and upon examination, it was 
found to be so much injured as to be no longer serviceable. 
It weighed 632 pounds, and performed its duty faithfully forty- 
four years." 

A DIRGE. 

I weep, while others, glad, rejoice, 

Then why these falling tears } 
I weep for thee whose warning voice 

Rang out full two score years 
In monitorial notes so clear — 

O'er every hill and dell 
That even now I seem to hear 

Thine echoes, silent Bell ? 

When spring came tripping o'er the hills 

With light, elastic tread, 
Or summer's silver-sandaled rills 

Adown the mountains sped, 
Thy voice arose with mellow tone 

O'er valley, hill, and dell, 
Alas, the days forever flown 

With thee, dear Villao-e Bell ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 213 

When autumn, robed in purple gown, 

All spangled o'er with gold 
By many a stern and chilly frown 

Old winter's wrath foretold, 
Thy voice to me seemed to repeat 

A dirge in every swell, 
Ah, how my heart responsive beat 

To those sad tones, dear Bell ! 

And when the hills all pallid grew 

Beneath a snowy crest, 
And every trembling warbler flew 

To seek a warmer nest. 
With startling tone upon the air 

Thy voice went forth to tell 
The hour for worship, or for prayer, 

Thou faithful Sabbath Bell ! 

How merrily thy peals did swell 

Upon each bridal morn. 
What destinies thou didst foretell 

Of paths without a thorn, 
Of homes where love, and faith, and trust 

Alone should sweetly dwell, — 
Ah, hearts that molder in the dust. 

Forget those chimes, old Bell ! 

The gray-haired pastor * long inurned 

Beneath the tufted sod. 
The new-born infant just returned 

Unsullied to its God, 

* Rev. Elisha Yale, D. D. 



214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The dear old teacher * — ah, those years, 

We loved him passing well, 
Alas, alas, these blinding tears 

Fall faster now, old Bell ! 

Then let me sing thy requiem 

And weep the years long fled, 
For thou didst toll a knell for them, 

The dear, departed dead ; 
And when my voice like thine is hushed, 

Oh, may its teachings swell 
Some faithful heart with loving trust 

To sing my dirge, old Bell ! 



THE LAST SUPPER OF THE 
GIRONDISTS. 

" A wealthy friend, who had escaped proscription and 
was concealed in Paris, agreed to send them a sumptuous 
banquet the night after their trial, which banquet was to 
prove to them a funeral repast or a triumphant feast, accord- 
ing to the verdict of acquittal or condemnation." — Life of 
Madame Roland. 

Bright o'er the dungeon walls, 
Bright as in festal halls, 
Not as when moonlight falls, 
Radiantly tender ; 

* Horace Sprague, M. A. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 215 

But with a dazzling glare 
Blazed the red flambeaux there. 
Flooding the prison bare 

With noonday splendor. 

Rusty the gratings old, 

Heaps of straw damp with mold. 

Prison-walls stern and cold, 

Beaten and battered ; 
On this abode of hell 
Weirdly the torch-lights fell. 
While through each vault and cell 

Chains clanked and clattered. 

There, where Death's hollow tread 
Sent back an echo dread, 
There the rich board was spread, 

Lavishly splendid ; 
And as each fated guest 
Round the rare banquet pressed. 
Mocked they with jeers and jest, 

Till it was ended. 

Rich were the viands spread, 
Sparkling the wines and red, 
As they, the living dead, 

Drained the rare essence. 
Ah, 'twas a strange burlesque, 
Figures and forms grotesque 
Scoffing with reckless jest 

Death's awful presence. 



2i6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Men with rough beards unshorn, 
Haggard, and wild, and worn, 
Quaffed till the rays of morn 

Softly had risen ; 
Then with the early dawn. 
Pressed by an eager throng, 
Robespierre, with saber drawn, 

Entered the prison. 

Red-heeled the monster strode. 
Scanning the drear abode, 
While his grim visage glowed 

Fiendishly hateful ; 
And as he turned to go 
Calmly spoke Vergniaud : 
" Ye shall reap as ye sow — 

This makes me grateful." 

Thundered the raging fiend, 
Then in his wrathful spleen, 
"Lo, on the guillotine 

This very morning, 
Wretch, for thy taunting tone 
Justice shall bare the bone ; 
Reap ye what I have sown, 

Heed well my warning." 

Many an earnest prayer 
Rose on the morning air; 
Many a heart laid bare 
All its foul error. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 217 

Clear beamed the Christian's Hght, 
Dark gloomed the skeptic's night, 
As at the fearful sight 

Quailed he with terror. 

Thus closed Death's pantomime, 
Played on the shores of time, 
Solemn and most sublime, 

Fearfully tragic. 
Thus did each spirit's pall 
Down o'er the foot-lights fall. 
Veiling in darkness, all, 

As if by magic. 



MISSIONS. 
Thrice gifted he, and blest above his kind, 

Whose name resounds with praise throughout 
the land, 
As from the glittering casket of his mind 
He scatters jewels with a lavish hand. 

Thrice honored he, and blessed in all his store. 
Who hears the cry of want throughout the land, 

And from his golden coffers running o'er 
Dispenses bounties with a princely hand. 

But honored, lauded, blessed above them all. 
Is he who lists the cry throughout the land 

Of broken, bleeding hearts, whose cups of gall 
O'er-brim by Sorrow's unrelenting hand — 



2 1 8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Tired, aching hearts that seek, but all in vain, 
Some gleam of comfort and of peace to find 

In that which least of all can soothe their pain, 
The coruscations of a brilliant mind. 

But, Oh, the healing words that Kindness breathes, 
That pity dictates in her soothing strain ; 

They fall, as rain-drops fall on drooping leaves, 
To cheer them into life and strength again. 

If e'er I've made one sinking heart more light, 
If e'er I've wiped one scalding tear away 

From cheeks whereon the rose had faded quite. 
From eyes where hope beamed forth no gentle 
ray, 

Then has my life-task been not wholly vain. 
Then is the meed I sought securely won, 

And when my own sad heart shall cease its pain 
I'll hear the plaudit, "Thou hast kindly done." 



IN CONCLUSION. 

I will not say the years for me have had 
No genial spring, no cheerful summer-glow. 

Because the winter of my life is sad, 
As on my lonely way I tearful, go. 

I will not say it had been better far. 

Had I ne'er tasted of life's mystic wine. 

Because perchance, the rays from Hope's pure star 
Across my darkened path but feebly shine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 219 

I will not grudge the quiet peace of glad 
Free lives that all unruffled, onward flow ; 

I will not say that all the world is bad, 

Because one selfish soul hath wrought me woe. 

Somehow, somewhere, and by some hidden hand 

I shall be led into the open light ; 
And as a soldier waits his chief's command 

So do I, patient, bide my weary night. 



LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. 



HAPPINESS. 

"If a man is unhappy, this must be his own fault: for 
God made all men to be happy." — Epictetus. 

My day was dark, across the sky 

The storm king's sable train went sweeping, 
The wind in fitful gusts sped by, 

And all the clouds were moved to weeping. 

My soul was sad. — " Ah, life is drear," 

I said in tones of deep repining ; 
Then fell this answer on mine ear, — 

"Thy grief is not of God's designing ; 

Art sad } then child, the fault is thine. 

Be happy, for thy Maker wills it ; 
Art thou athirst for Life's best wine } 

Hold thou thy cup, and lo. He fills it ! " 

For words so fraught with power to save, 

Across the centuries out-reaching 
Thanks be to a poor Phrygian slave. 

Who lent his life to holy teaching. 



224 LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. 

Heart-crowned with jewels of content, 
He sat enthroned, this Pagan stoic; 

For in his dauntless soul were blent 
A purpose high, and faith heroic. 

So, friends, when storms come pelting down. 
And Hope's fair skies refuse to greet us, 

With brows unfurrowed by a frown. 
Let's calmly walk with Epictetus, 



CONTENTMENT. 

" I am always content with what happens; for I think that 
what God chooses is better than what I choose." — Epictetus. 

Rejoice in your station, whatever it be, 
If you win but one laurel, why, wear it ! 

The robin sings best in the top of the tree, 
And the poet sings best in his garret. 

Fate placed us on earth in our separate spheres, — 

Then how useless, how weak, is repining; 
Why should we look downward half blinded by 

tears 
For the star that above us is shining ? 

If vainly we yearn for a pleasure to come 
That awaits us on some glad to-morrow, 
Or, sighing, look back to the joys that are gone, 
What is left for the present but sorrow .? 



LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. 225 

Go stand by the casement and lift up your eyes 
When the twilight to darkness is turning; 
There are black-bordered chasms way up in the 
skies 
But bright stars on their edges are burning ! 

The heart will be heavy, the way will seem dark, 
And Grief's serried hosts may o'ertake us ; 

But life's darkest caverns are lit by a spark 
From the star that shall never forsake us. 



MODERATION. 

" Into what dangerous and miserable servitude does he fall, 
who suffereth pleasure and sorrow (two unfaithful and cruel 
commanders) to possess him successively." — Seneca. 

The Stoic saith : Be moderate, 

Tiiy fiery passions tame, 
Be not too ardent in thy hate. 

Thy love, thy praise, thy blame. 

Hast thou some secret idol sought 

For worship set apart } 
Nay, idol-worship ne'er hath brought 

Contentment to the heart. 

Hath dire revenge thy spirit stirred, 

Thy stormy bosom rent ? 
Nay, dire revenge hath ne'er conferred 

The crown of sweet content. 



226 LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. 

Let time and circumstance make test 

Of every tinseled prize, 
Lest blinded impulse in thy breast 

O'er keen-eyed judgment rise. 

Set thou a limit to thy mirth, 

A limit to thy woe, 
So shall thy days upon the earth 

In tranquil pleasure flow. 

THE MEASURE OF WORTH. 

"Every man is worth just so much as the things are worth 
about which he busies himself." — Marcus Aurelius. 

What is thy worth, O brother man. 

What proud achievement hast thou done .? 

Since first life's little hour began 

What hast thou lost } What hast thou won } 

Hast bartered virtue with the fiend 
Who gave thee in return but dross >. 

Then is thy soul forever weaned 

From calm content. — Oh, may the loss 

Of thy slain innocence but leave 

A space for pity in thy breast. 
So that thy careful hands may weave 

The robe that Charity loves best. 

What is the goal that lures thine eyes 
In life's o'er-heated, veering race } 

Has honor struggled for the prize } 
Has deed with theory kept pace } 



LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. 227 

Hast ever rescued from the brink 

Of dark temptation's foul abyss 
One blinded soul ? Worth's brightest link 

Had bound thee for a deed like this. 

The Stoic's philosophic height 

Thy stumbling feet may ne'er attain ; 

And restless care and sorrow's blight 
May clog the heart, and dull the brain ; 

But hold the Pagan's proverb true, 
Through all thy pilgrimage on earth, 

That what thou findest best to do 
Will be the measure of thy worth. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



COALS OF FIRE. 

Old Deborah Dare wasn't what you'd call rich, 

Nor yet was she poverty-stricken : indeed, 
She always "made do" with a crumb or a stitch, 
When her larder ran low or her gown went to 
seed ; 
And to borrow ! she always affirmed with much 

spite, 
That the ant served the poor little cricket just 
right. 

One Saturday night as old Deborah sat 

By her fire-lit hearth, toeing off a wool sock, 
At her door came the faint, feeble ghost of a rap. 
Then the door-latch clicked twice like the tick 
of her clock. 
"It is some of that borrowin' tribe" said Miss 

Dare, 
"But I won't ask 'em in, nor I won't set a chair." 

Rap-tap, went the knuckles as plain as could be, 
(Miss Deborah's needles worked on at the toe.) 

" They owe me already two drawin's of tea, 

And they haint brought my flat irons back and 
they owe 



232 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

Me an egg, and nine chances to ten 
But they'll borrow, next summer, my old settin* 
hen." 

Then a weak voice piped out, " Please, Miss De- 
borah, do 
Just open the door, and I'll run right away : 
I've brought a wee bit of a present for you, 

To-morrow is Christmas you know, and that 
day 
Is always so lonesome," — then followed a pause, — 
" If you haint got no friends and no Old Santa 
Claus. 

Here's a pullet all dressed, and a saucer-mincepie, 
And a big winter squash, — but my shawl is so 

thin. 
And my hands are so cold, I'm fraid I shall cry, 

But I'm tryin' hard not to, so please let me in 
And I'll just leave your goodies, and run right 

away. 
For I haint come to borrow a thing nor to stay." 

What was it that blinded Miss Deborah's eyes 
As she opened the door on that cold wintry 
night } 
Her " borrowin' " neighbor — oh, what a surprise. 

Had rendered ten-fold for the pitiful mite 
She had grudgingly loaned her, — "Well, I do de- 
clare 
These are real coals of fire " said Deborah Dare. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 233 

THE ORPHAN PRINCE. 

A little child whose story-book had fallen at his 

side, 
Was brushing off a pearly tear; I asked him why 

he cried ; 
With sob suppressed he faltered low, " The young 

king's mamma died:" 

" 'T was many years ago," I said, " the young 

king's happy now ; 
He does not wear an earthly crown to deck his 

royal brow ; 
A brighter diadem he wears, and so, my child, 

shalt thou." 

"But oh, the cruel blows!" he cried — a sob was 

in his tone — 
" Just think how sad he must have been in prison 

all alone ! 
And then they beat and starved him so, — their 

hearts were made of stone." 

•' What was the young king's name } " I said. 

" 'T was little Charles ; you see 
Here in my picture-book he's kneehng at his 

mother's knee. 
I guess she called him 'Charlie,' too as my mamma 

does me. 

And don't you see those fierce, bad men half-hid- 
den by the screen ? 



234 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

Well, once they came and bound her fast, although 
she was a queen, 

And killed her with a wicked axe they called a guil- 
lotine. 

And then the little orphan king grew sadder every 

day ; 
A cobbler was his jailer — I'd have tried to run 

away ; 
But oh, he feared him so he didn't even dare to 

pray. 

And later, when he older grew and got to be a 

man. 
His jailors kept him just the same in prison at 

Milan ; 
It grieves me so that even now I hate them all I 

can." 

" Not so, my child ; your heart," I said, " should 

never harbor hate. 
Now listen while I tell you of the little monarch's 

fate, 
And then you'll see how God esteems the good 

above the great. 

Those savage men whose bloody deeds your story- 
book has shown 

Were sadly punished for their crimes ere many 
years had flown. 

And went to answer for their sins before the J udge's 
throne. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 235 

But he, the little orphan king, a pious monk be- 
came, 

A gentle, quiet Christian man, who sought no 
worldly fame, 

Nor even wished his royal throne to occupy or 
claim. 

Though in a splendid palace born, at last from 

want and woe 
He sought the friendly shelter of the monks of 

Vaux-Renaud, 
And learned how feeble is the power of kings and 

crowns below. 

And thus, my boy, you learn from this that even 

kings must die 
And go before the great white throne of Him who 

reigns on high, 
And answer for their deeds wrought here the same 

as you and I." 



A SCHOOL-GIRL'S TRIALS. 

'T was nigh unto Wednesday, that much-dreaded 

day, 
When thoughts are as scarce as a snow-flake in 

May; 
Or, if an idea in strolling about 
Creeps into the brain it will fail to creep out. 



236 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

I had chosen at least twenty different themes ; 
At first I selected the land of my dreams, — 
The land where Queen Mab in her mystical robe 
Makes you richer than Croesus or poorer than 
Job; 

Where Morpheus beckons with many a nod, 
And o'er the dominions proclaims himself god. 
But this was too sleepy a subject and then 
I penned down a thought, and then thought of — 
my pen, 

When suddenly paper and pen were resigned, 
For the words of my teacher rushed into my mind ; 
Yes, doubly emphatic they came to me now. 
Bereft of all promise, — a nearly made vow. 

And these were the words that distinctly arose : 
" Hereafter endeavor to write simple prose ; 
Your next composition I think I'll decline, 
Unless you're inspired to write it in rhyme." 

Now why should these words be remembered" so 
late ? 

I had written a line and looked after its mate. 

And though it matched smoothly as need be de- 
sired, 

'T was plain when I wrote it 1 was not inspired ! 

My lessons were hard, all exertion was vain, 
For ciphers like hailstones were sent at my name, 
And when at my "standing" I ventured to look, 
Behold, not a " lo " could I find on the book! 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 237 

To muse o'er my trials alone I retired, 
And thought, " By what process are poets in- 
spired ? ' 
'T is said that some rhymsters their poetry grind, 
But no such machinery do I seek to find. 

If that be the surest and only resort, 

I fear that my stanzas will be few and short, 

For rather than turn out such poems as those 

I'll clip off my rhymes and declare my work prose. 

And here I would venture to make the appeal, 
Let me feel what I write, let me write what I feel ; 
And though I may not be inspired with rhyme, 
The fault is the Muse's, how can it be mine ? 



SONG. 

WORK FOR ALL TO DO. 

There's work for e'en the tiny stream 

That ripples through the glade ; 
That winds along in happy song 

Through sunshine and through shade 
See how it laves with freshening waves 

The fragile, drooping flowers, 
Then hastes away to join the play 

Of softly-falling showers. 

There's work for all in Nature's hall, 

Of living, moving things, 
For bird and bee, that, ever free, 

Employ their tiny wings. 



2 38 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

There's work for those who idly doze^ 

And dream their time away, 
Who never brought a dormant thought 

To lively, active play. 

The heathen lands to busy hands 

A thousand blessings owe ; 
They could not love the God above. 

Nor serve him here below, 
Had they not heard his holy Word 

From those who kindly went, 
And freely spread the living bread 

Which busy hands have sent ! 

Each little heart that acts its part 

In kindly deeds of love, 
That earnest pleads for all misdeeds 

Forgiveness from above, 
Will never stray from virtue's way, 

But ever keep in view 
That " Satan finds some mischief still 

For idle hands to do." 



GRIMALKIN. 

" I hate my cat," said Mabel Gray, 
As on a grassy knoll she lay 
And brushed the falling tears away 
That marred her pretty face : 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 239 

She turned and heard a stealthy tread, 
"Well, what new mischief now," she said, 
" You need not shake your guilty head, 
You know you're in disgrace. 

" I'd like to tie your cruel claws. 
And pry apart your wicked jaws, 
And look right down your throat, because, 

I know what I should see ; — 
Three little birdies half fledged out, 
You need not ma-ow ; I have no doubt 
That you are on another scout 

The way you watch that tree. 

" Just hear that poor bird-mother moan, 
You might have left her nest alone, 
Your heart is harder than a stone, — 

Don't blink your great green eyes. 
Have you forgot the toad that died 
Because you tore his warty hide, 
And bit him on the head beside ? 

Your meanness I despise. 

" And my canary, too, last spring, 
You almost broke its pretty wing. 
And nearly killed the frightened thing 

Before its cries I heard ; 
You'll not get any milk to-day. 
No wonder that you s-n-e-a-k away, — 
Scat ! scat ! oh dear ! help, help, I pray, 

She's caught the mother-bird ! " 



240 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

A RHYMED EPISTLE TO FRED. 
Dear Fred : — 

I've thought this many a day 

I'd write to you without delay ; 

But swift the hours have flown away, 

And still I'm ever pleading 
A want of time and talen*" to write, 
Because my letters are such a fright, 
Blotted and dotted, a wonderful sight, 

And scarcely worth the reading. 

But since a thought has entered my brain 
(A thing which never may happen again), 
I'll write to you in poetical strain ; 

Of course you are never to show it. 
Though poets, you know, have a license to write 
Whatever their heads or their hearts may indite ; 
And if I should soar to this jDrivileged height, 

'T will prove that I'm — only a poet ! 

Well, Fred, our vacation approaches its end ; 
And don't they seem short, these few days that we 

spend 
Away from the school-room } Now, honest, my 
riend. 
Don't tell me you're anxiously yearning 
To get back to school again, — how can it be ? 
No doubt you'll come out with a mammoth M. D. 
To show off your wonderful learning ! 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 241 

Geometry, Algebra, Grammar, — well, there ! 
I vote them a bore, Fred ; I do, I declare. 
And who doesn't know that his head is in air. 

And his feet on the earth, when he's going ? 
And then, don't I know that if I chance to place 
My line of direction outside of my base, 
That I'm sure to fall down on my back or my face. 

Without my Philosophy's showing ? 

Well, here I've arrived at the end of my sheet ; 
My thoughts are so poor 't will not do to repeat ; 
And so, in " good order," I'll beat a retreat. 

And trust that your earliest leisure 
Will find you essaying an answer to mine. 
Just tell me whatever your heart may incline ; 
If not a long letter, just drop me a line ; 

'T will give me, you know, so much pleasure. 



LOST TREASURES. 

High on the limb of an old cherry tree 
Sang a ground robin at morn's early peep. 

While just beneath her, as snug as could be, 
Nestled four dear little birdlings asleep. 

Tall o'er their heads the red timothy rose, — 
Just like a forest the long grasses stood. 

Safe from all danger the nest to enclose. 

While the fond mother went searching; for food. 



242 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

Oh, how each clamored and stretched up its beak, 
Soon as she flew panting homeward once more, 

Down 'mid the grasses her darlings to seek, 
Laden with tidbits, — a plentiful store ! 

Sometimes on tip-toe I ventured to look 

Down at my pets in their snug, mossy nest. 

Praising the gold of each sweet open throat, 
Stroking the down of each fair glossy breast. 

But as one morning the meadow I crossed, 
Lo, mother-bird rent the air with her cries ; 

What could it mean? Had her darlings been lost 
Trying to plume their young wings for the skies ? 

Searching, I read her wild notes of distress, — 
Just o'er the heads of her innocent brood, 

Some cruel vagrant a reed-trap had placed, 
Frightening the old bird away with her food. 

Quickly I caught up the treacherous snare, 
Ah, my heart bleeds as I tell you the rest — 

Mother-bird came, but she found only there. 
Four little skeletons starved in the nest ! 



A BOTANICAL BABY. 
High up on the bough of a flower-budding tree, 
Where the red-breasts their matins were sing- 
ing. 
I spied a wee cradle, a droll sight to see, 
A little brown rocker hung up in the tree. 

Which the wild winds kept swaying and swing- 
ing. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 243 

This rocker with scaly-brown tiles was o'er- wrought, 

And with resinous balsams cemented ; 
And as it swayed backward and forward I ciught 
The sweet breath of zephyrs deliciously fraught 
With the faintest of odors balm-scented. 

I climbed to the bough where the cradle was hung, 

For within it I longed to be peeping ; 
And there, where the birds a soft lullaby sung, 
And where the winds rudely their light burden 
swung, 
Lay a pink flower-baby, — and slee[)ing ! 

Oh, soft was the blanket and spotless as snow. 
That was carefully folded around it ! 

But now my heart smites me, — yet how should I 
know 

That this infant was destined to flourish and grow 
On the bough of the tree where I found it ? 

It lies here beside me, a mute, lifeless thing, 
For the food that was fashioned to rear it 
Is hid in the boughs that now restlessly swing, 
And the birds all in vain their sweet lullabies sing, 
For a babe that is dead cannot hear it ! 

Come with me, O, ye who would study the ways 
Of the woods and the fields and the hedges. 

Come with me and see where the horse-chestnut 
sways 

Its flower-budding branches these soft April days. 
Weaving shadows with golden-flecked ed<;es. 



244 POEJ\IS FOR CHILDREN. 

The leaf-buds that swell 'neath these fostering 
skies 

Now their seven-cleft palms are unfolding ; 
But fairest of all is the baby that lies 
In its little brown rocker, — an elf in disguise, 

That awaits our astonished beholding. 



THE VICTOR VANQUISHED. 

A King-Bird sat on a leafy limb, 

And sang of his victories, loud and long ; 

His vaunting heart was full to the brim, 

As you would have thought had you heard his 
song. 

He boasted that the eagle and hawk 

Were often forced to acknowledge him king ; 

His notes rang out like a braggart's talk, 

As you would have said had you heard him sing. 

Just then a butterfly stopped to rest, 

And chanced to alight on the self-same tree ; 

A fair arcbippus with brilliant crest — 

And, oh, wonderful wings of gold had she ! 

She'd fed on the milkweed's juicy stalk 
Until its pink cream had tinted her wing ; 

A few soft flakes that were white as chalk 
Shone out here and there in a gorgeous ring 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 245 

Of orange and red, while bands of black 
Enameled her garments of dazzling sheen ; 

Of grace and beauty there was no lack, 

For fair Lepidoptera crowned her " Queen." 

The King-Bird saw her rest on the tree — 
" Well, really, my lady is not afraid ; 

A dainty morsel she'll make," said he ; 

And then he sharpened his beak like a blade ! 

" I'll pick the meal from her loaded wings, 

I'll suck the rich cream from her soft, round 
breast ; 

The choicest morsels were made for kings. 

And surely this monarch should have the best." 

And then with a chuckling chirrup low. 

He hopped quite noiselessly nearer his prey, 

And you would have laughed outright, I know, 
Had you seen his woeful look of dismay ! 

" A vile archippus," he seemed to chirp, 
" A nauseous worm with a borrowed wing," 

(Then giving his bill an angry jerk,) 
" Not even fit for the serf of a king. 

Instead of a luscious skipper or moth, 

Or bright asteria, here I have found 
A loathsome thing that I'm even loath 

To hurl with my bill to the dusty ground," 



246 POEMS FOR CHILDREX. 

Then turning his head to left and right, 

His sharp, bead-like eyes all ablaze with hate, 

He plumed his wings for a hasty flight, 
To pour his woes in the ears of his mate. 

Meanwhile the fair queen turned back her wings. 
Well taught that a free, charmed life was hers, 

For she had wisdom higher than kings — 
That wisdom of instinct that never errs! 

" Ha, little braggart," said I, "although 
Of wonderful conquests you loudly sing, 

You're conquered now, I very well know. 
By the golden edge of an insect's wing ! " 

The archippus butterfly, doubtless, has a nauseous dis- 
agreeable taste that birds do not relish, for it is the only kind 
that can roam unmolested by them. 



OLD MR. SANTA CLAUS. 

In Westminster Abbej-, there is a beautiful chapel dedi- 
cated to St. Nicholas, and one of the local guides gravely im- 
parts the information that it is the burial-place of the original 
Santa Claus. 

A little maid with curls of gold 
Sat on my knee one Christmas morn, 
With apron full as it could hold 
From smiling Plenty's fruitful horn ; 
While in a manner gravely quaint 
She questioned of her Patron Saint. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

Where did he live ? Where was he born ? 
Did he, like us, come from the sky ? 
And was his white beard never shorn ? 
And would he ever, ever die ? 
And then she paused and earnest, said, - 
" What would I do if he were dead ? " 

To test her faith and tax her wit, 
I sighed and very gravely said, 
"My little May, I grieve for it. 
But dear old Santa Claus is dead. 
'Tis sad, my dear, but listen well, 
And I a strange, true tale will tell. 

There is a church so old so grand 

That not another can compare 

In anywise in any land 

And Santa Claus is buried there ! 

Carved shields and roses crown his bier, 

And lords and kings are lying near." 

Incredulous, but tearful, still. 
She raised to mine her swimming eyes, — 
" But who did then my stocking fill } " 
And thoughtfully, again replies, 
"There must be some mistake because 
Our cook has seen old Santa Claus! " 

Then with an eager, puzzled look, 

" But was it very long ago .•' 

And did you read it in a book .'' 

For some books are not true, you know — ' 



248 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

" But this is true, my little elf, 
For I have seen the grave myself." 

" But was it very long ago ? " 
" Ah, yes, my love, 'tis many years," — 
Behold her sweet face all aglow, 
And forcing back the swelling tears, 
" Then it must be," she quick replied, 
" Old Mr. Santa Claus that died ! ", 



THE UNATTAINABLE. 

Two fair little maidens with ringlets of gold 
And cheeks like June roses, sat under a tree ; 

Lithe, graceful and dainty, each formed in a mold 
Of marvelous beauty, — a picture to see. 

One wore the soft robes that fall only to wealth. 
Rich velvets and laces her deft figure clad; 

The other bloomed gaily mid roses of health, 

Content with plain homespun, her heart was so 
glad. 

Just then a tame robin flew up to the nest 

That swung, zephyr-rocked, on the bough of the 
tree. 

Her mottled brown coat, and her trim scarlet vest 
Just suited her style, one could easily see. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 249 

"That robin is mine, — mine forever to keep," 
Said plain little Homespun, "but wait and some 
day 

We'll climb to the nest and I'll give you a peep 
At four little eggs, when the bird is away." 

" I'll buy the sweet bird and her nest in the tree, 
And give you the money ; oh, won't it be fine ? 

Then you will have velvets and laces like me. 
And you can wear dresses as costly as mine." 

Two round pearly drops sprang to Homespun's 
blue eyes, 

'•' I'd rather go hungry and shabby," she said, 
" Than part with my birdie that every day flies 

Right under my window for crumbles of bread ; 

I know that your velvets and laces are fine^ 
I know I am poor, just as poor as can be; 

But though you wear clothing more costly than 
mine 
You can't buy that robin's nest up in our tree ! " 



THE FIRST "BANG." 

My little Maude, ne'er tired of Bible lore, 
Stood in her dainty night-robe at my knee, 

And begged that I would tell "one story more," 
Ere she to bed must go. What should it be > 



250 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

Should it be Joseph and his brothers, then ? 

No, that her tender heart too sorely grieves. 
Should it be Daniel in the lion's den ? 

Or modest Ruth among the ripened sheaves ? 

Or should two shaggy bears from out the wood 
In hungry haste Elisha's call obey ? 

Or should the knowing ravens carry food 
To poor Elijah, as he famished lay ? 

Or good Queen Esther, she the loved and famed, 
Who out of peril her dear people led ? 

But, as each topic was in order named, 
She slowly shook her golden, curly head ; 

Then chose the Giant Samson, shorn of strength, 
Bereft of sight, imprisoned, and alone ; 

And when the tale was done there came, at length, 
A long-drawn sigh, and then with tearful tone : 

"I pity poor old Samson so," she said, 
(A keen resentment in her accents rang,) 

" I'm glad he killed those naughty people dead, 
Because they tried to 7nake him wear a Bang ! " 



THE TWO WEAVERS. 

The sunbeams far down in the meadow. 
At sly hide and seek were at play. 

When lo, a tall oak threw its shadow 
And frightened the idlers away ; 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN, 251 

And then as the shadow grew deeper, 
Two weavers climbed up on the tree. 

One wrought a web-palace of lace work 
As dainty as dainty could be. 

The other built up a coarse fabric, 

A rustic and rough hodden-gray, 
And in this plain garment, close woven, 

She hid herself meekly away. 

The gossamer weaver tripped lightly 

Across her frail net of soft lace, 
Her eight bead-like eyes full of malice, 

And full of deep cunning, her face. 

And when the fine structure was finished. 
Her keen eyes, fierce, scornful, and proud, 

Peered slyly in quest of the toiler 

Enwrapped in her self-wcven shroud. 

" How dares that coarse weaver of home-spun," 

She said, with a spiteful grimace, 
" Set up her rough loom near my palace. 

My palace of silver-spun lace .'' 

'Tis well the vile creature has hidden 
Her gross, ugly form from my sight ; 

It may be the glare of my grandeur 
Has caused her to die of affright." 

The sunbeams of summer departed, 
And cold winds of autumn sighed low, 

And soon her frail net-work of laces 
Was buried in feathery snow. 



252 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

But there, on the bough dried and leafless 
Unmindful of sunshine or cloud, 

Still lay through the long dreary winter, 
The weaver asleep in her shroud. 

And when the oak donned her green leaflets 
And birds sought her boughs on glad wing. 

And fair-petaled blossoms awakened 
Beneath the warm kiss of the spring ; 

A creature of marvelous beauty 

Burst forth from that gloomy gray shroud, 
With pinions as swift as the sunbeams. 

And bright as a golden-hued cloud. 

But never more came the proud weaver 

To build up her palace of lace, 
Ah surely, " He scorneth the scorner, 

And giveth the lowly his grace." 



RETALIATION. 

Let's hang up our stockings," said little house 

wren, 
" Agreed," said the sparrows, "we'll try it." 
'Twill be of no use," croaked the old speckled 

hen, 
" For Santa Claus never '11 come nigh it. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 253 

I tried it last year, and not one of my brood 
Got a single grain more for the trouble, 

Although I had told them that if they'd be good 
Their feed would most surely be double. 

But I've not forgotten the slight, never fear, 
I just ' stole ' my nest when I made it ; 

And never an Q.g%^ have I furnished this year, 
And not by one cackle betrayed it ! " 

" Don't mind what she says," said the wren, speak- 
ing low 

" She's known for her ceaseless complaining; 
In winter she fears it is going to snow. 

In summer she's sure 'twill be raining." 

" 'Twill pay us to try," said the sparrows aloud, 
" If we get but a few grains of barley." 

*' A few grains of barley among such a crowd ! " 
Said the hen. Then an end of the parley 

Was suddenly made by the farmer, who cast 
His eyes round the poultry-yard, seeking 

A fowl, fat and fair for his Christmas repast ; 
And ere the poor hen had done speaking, 

He seized her and bore her away by the legs. 

Although she distinctly protested. 
" A-ha," said the cook, " since you won't furnish 
eggs 

Nor tell where all summer you've nested 



254 POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 

Just make yourself useful for once, Mistress Hen, 
There's no use of croaking and kicking ; 

We'll serve you for dinner to-morrow, and then 
We'll see if your bones are worth picking." 



SCHOOL SONG. 

(A Parting Ode.) 
We go, but sunny Memory 

Sheds o'er each path her light, 
And Friendship's fairest garland 

Shall crown each brow to-night ; 

It is a fadeless chaplet, 
We weave it ere we part. 

Its flowers are immortal 

They bloom within the heart. 

The sunbeam and the shadow 
On vacant seats will fall. 

And footsteps wake no echo 
Within the silent hall ; 

But long may sunny Memory 
Shed o'er each path her light, 

And fadeless be the garland 

That crowns each brow to-night. 



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